Inquisadora

With rings on her nipples that shake to and fro,

She shall have music wherever she goes.

A smile, a wink, a lick of the lips,

Start the ordeal all face in her grip.

She'll pierce your flesh, burn off your short hairs,

Rings, brands, and whipmarks she'll help you to wear.

Candlewax, clamps, needle and thread,

Enemas, dogstick, her hand past the wrist,

Plugs, studded shafts, and, if you've earned it,

She'll make your pink flesh hum with electrical current.

Sweat, shudder, shake – scream if you want,

Her only response'll be to tighten the knot.

In no time at all you'll start answering questions,

Obey commands, follow suggestions.

All fare the same, be they lady or whore,

When it's over and done with

They each yearn for more.

Popular tavern song from the reign of Queen Caprice

Author unknown

Minok climbed the stairs slowly, age long ago having stolen most of the spring from her step. The marble stairs were covered with a wide runner, handmade and exquisitely beautiful. It had been made and cut specifically for these stairs, and there wasn't a gap or a wrinkle as the wide stairway curved down to the hall below. There were guards there, one on each side of the stairs, as there were above her where the covered steps ended. They were the largest, strongest, fiercest, finest trained guards the kingdom could produce, and they watched over the entire palace environs, not just this one bedroom.

Minok reached the upper landing and paused a second, slightly out of breath. Then she made sure her robes were in order and strode into the royal bedchamber.

This area of the palace was constructed mainly of marble of the finest grade, peach in color but with many veins of different colors running through it. In the spacious bedroom most of the veins were brown or dark red in color. They ran through the towering columns to the arched ceiling some thirty feet above.

The Queen was on her huge bed, apparently just awake. Minok stopped near the doorway and kept her own counsel as the form on the bed stretched and yawned. An afternoon nap, perhaps? The Queen, unfortunately, took no one's counsel, at least not seriously. In fact, she took little seriously, a fact her advisors, of which Minok was one, were well aware. Some of that was of course due to her age, but there were other considerations as well. She could hardly be expected to have the worldliness required of a queen knowing nothing but a life of unlimited privilege. Her advisors had made the queen's bed and now had to lie in it, so to speak.

The sheets were gold silk and in disarray, half on the floor. The Queen sat up amidst the folds and scooted forward to put her bare feet on the floor, which was covered by another magnificent hand-woven rug. The Queen's thick auburn hair was cut short to just below her ears and tousled from her nap. It framed a heart-shaped, boyish face that matched well her slender body. The Queen glanced sideways at her advisor waiting patiently by the doorway but pretended not to see her. Minok was used to that.

The young woman stood and walked casually toward the wide open doors leading onto the sun-drenched balcony. She wore but loose drawstring pants riding low on her hips, made of a fine white linen that was revealed to be sheer as she strode into the warm sunlight. Minok moved to the balcony, stopping in the shade of the doors. Guards were stationed out here on the balcony as well but both women ignored them. Female guards, as was the rule when the monarch was an uncrowned queen. Not that she couldn't order a pretty slave boy to her chambers at any time, but the ladies of the court secretly felt the queen would be better off (and perhaps easier to control) if she favored females, and they did all in their power to make it so. The queen was known to have dallied with a few palace boys but seemed to prefer her many maids, much to the delight of the shadow court. Minok wasn't sure if the queen even registered the presence of the guards anymore, or had ever noticed the subtle signs of the real security systems guarding the balcony from both air and ground attack.

Queen Verveginnia raised her arms above her head and stretched once more, feeling the warmth of the sun and the gentle breeze across her skin, then set her hands on her hips and stared out at her realm. The palace was atop a large hill and many stories high, with her bedroom on the top floor; she could see nearly the entire city laid out before her, all the way to the sea. Huge butterflies drifted up from the garden far below, butterflies and the smell of hundreds of flowers. A small army of laborers tended the palace's many gardens, feeding, watering, weeding, and fertilizing every day of the year. Beyond the garden, with its butterflies, flowers, and statuary (which provided most of the manure used to fertilize the flowers – the flagella gave them the opportunity to relieve themselves going to or returning from their display station) was the first ring wall. A field of roofs, some trimmed in copper blazing in the sun, separated by courtyards large and small, filled the spaces between the next few ringwalls. Past the fourth ringwall the city proper began, and stretched all the way down to the hazy blue sea in the distance. The sights and smells of ten thousand people, the lifeblood that made the city what it was, drifted up to her, the same as it did every day.

"I'm bored," she said petulantly as if to herself, kicking a toe against the waist-high wall encircling the balcony.

"Milady?" Minok had heard her quite well, but it was obvious the young ruler was in one of her many moods. From behind the young royal looked even more the picture of a young boy, with hips barely wide enough to keep the pantalones from sliding off.

The queen spun around and crossed her arms across her chest. "Bored," she said again, a mite churlishly, giving her closest advisor an annoyed look.

Minok raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps I can arrange for some entertainment for your highness," she offered. "Special pony races, perhaps, or some games in the garden—"

The queen frowned and waved a hand in dismissal. "I've seen everything this city has to show me," she stated flatly.

Minok ignored the absurdity of the statement and tried to placate her queen. "Maybe we—"

"Do you realize I've been Queen almost ten years and I've never been west of the River?" she demanded of her advisor.

"Well, Milady, your mother died when you were quite young, I don't think ten years—"

The queen rolled her eyes and stomped back into the dark bedroom. She threw herself sideways onto one of the divans in a huff, eyes following Minok as the aged woman came back into the bedroom, her face set in an unreadable mask.

"Don't make that face at me," the queen warned her. "You know very well it's true."

"Your highness, while it is true, I don't think it's wise to take the occasion of some simple boredom to consider traipsing into the wilds of the realm." Ignorance of the realm and all its doings has been perfectly satisfactory for you up until now, the advisor could have added, had she wanted a personal appointment with the royal inquisadora . Had she ever been that young? Just looking at the queen's body made her feel old. Her small breasts didn't fold over even when she was slouching insolently on the divan.

"How am I supposed to rule, knowing nothing of the majority of my country?" the queen demanded, brows knit together. "I will be of age in less than two years, as you well know." She stabbed a finger at a bodymaid standing hobbled in a corner and the maid immediately shuffled forward, chains tinkling. She was one of three standing still as stones in the dark corners, waiting to be called into service.

The slave girls who served the queen and court as bodymaids wore naught during the warm season but their toeboots and metals. They – as were all the handmaids and attendants in the palace, collectively known as thrallflesh – were handpicked from the city's nurseries. The exacting royal dominii raised them in their secret school, training and conditioning them from the earliest age possible. They were only placed in the palace, and released into the care of the flagella , the palace flesh tenders, when the dominii were satisfied. It was said nothing short of perfection pleased the dominii, but truth be told, most of their charges entered service by the first bloom of womanhood.

Not just from their bodies but every hair from the bodymaids' heads had been removed as well, their skulls kept oiled and glistening. The custom dated back to the black years and no one was wont to change such a longstanding tradition even though lice were no longer a problem. Two light silver chains depended from the center of their collars, each chain running down and through a nipple ring before reaching their pure silver wrist bracelets. The chains were long enough for a maid to touch her own face with outstretched fingers and no longer. Thus they were prevented from touching themselves. Even though they were forbidden from doing so without permission most were still suffering the blooming surges of maturity, not to mention the fact that the air of their sleeping quarters was a constant haze from chukka root incense. The maid's boots were connected at the ankle by a hobble chain just four small links long.

"The people expect me to know their wishes, their desires, their day to day strife. I have seen enough to know that most of my realm is not like this." She lifted one bare foot onto the divan and reclined slightly as she waved her hand at the city past the balcony, nearly striking the bodymaid as she knelt before her. "Am I to become psychic?

"Milady, might I suggest that that is why you have your royal advisors, to help you make those difficult decisions. Collectively we have a vast knowledge of the land-"

"Yes," the queen interrupted sharply, "and how did you get that knowledge? By staying locked up in the palace all your life, being chauffeured around in guarded coach, never setting foot on ground that hasn't been surveilled and sterilized thrice over? I think not!"

"Milady, this is perhaps not the best time to contemplate leaving the city. There are many important issues coming before the court."

The queen waved her hand almost in disgust. "Bring them to the attention of the court harpies, the aristocratic Ladies ," the word was dirty in her mouth, "that make the real decisions. No, don't try to deny it. They make a show of consulting me, but we both know it is but a show. I know you are my ally, perhaps the only one I have in the royal court, and you know as well as I that I am not yet the ruler of this land, even though my time draws near." Queen by birth or not, she could not officially take the throne for another nineteen months. She glanced down briefly at the gleaming skull working between her thighs. The faint tinkling of chains could be heard. Her baggy pantalones, as well as most of her lounging pants, were split-crotch, the two pantlegs connected not at all except at the drawstring front and back. They provided the bodymaid complete and easy access. "That will change, and soon, don't you worry, but before I dig my teeth into this back-stabbing poisonous life I want to see the realm my mother has left me." She smacked the maid sharply on the top of her head. "More tongue!" she commanded.

"Milady, a simple trip just to the nearest of the territories would take weeks. Ponies can only travel so far in a day. The logistics . . . . we'd need a second coach just for food and supplies, and a third for the guard, not to mention—"

"No no no," the queen cut her off. "I do not want to ride a mile-long circus train into the desert. One coach, with a handful of trusted guards, you, a maid, and myself. I want to be inconspicuous. We will bring money and jewels and buy what we need along the way. We will travel north first, then west, and see what we shall see. Among other things I wish to visit an inseminarium. You will arrange the details, you know better than I what will be required."

Minok was horrified, not the least by the thought of traveling hundreds of miles of rough road in a bumpy carriage. She desperately tried another tack, even though she knew how pointless it was to try to change the young queen's mind once it was made up. "Milady, perhaps if you knew . . . now is not the best time to be leaving the safety of the city. There are rumors – nothing substantial, mind you, but rumors nonetheless – that factions here or abroad are unhappy with the thought of you assuming the throne. They—"

"So what else is new? The old women downstairs have been grumbling at my very existence since the day my mother died. I've grown a thick skin. Give me no more arguments! I've not sent anyone to the Inquisadora for weeks and she grows restless. You'll not stand up to her idle hands as well as the drunken commoner wenches they tell me she lures from taverns. Leave me be."

"As your Highness wishes." Minok began backing out of the bedroom.

"I do. I want to leave the morning after next. I expect you to have all the arrangements made by then."

Having said all she wished to say the queen turned to look out the open balcony doors and Minok took her cue to depart. The queen sighed and cupped her chin in a palm. Two golden butterflies flapped in silent figure eights above the balcony's marble, swimming in a haze of pollen particles lit up in the sun. From the divan she could just see the haze that marked the edge of the sea, and faint specks that had to be gulls circling over the beach. From the garden far below the sounds of a gardening crew drifted up to her, singing a work song in unison softly. The queen glanced down again at the maid kneeling before her. Even her experienced tongue, split as it was and with its many studs, wasn't enough to bring her out of her funk.

"Bored," she said again, listlessly.

CHAPTER ONE

Daka grunted, digging his fingers into the dusty soil to get a better grip on the stubborn root. In this dry land the only plants that survived were those with deep reaching tap roots. This one's leaves spread out less than the width of his hand, but he knew its root system dove down at least two feet.

He jerked and felt the root snap somewhere below. He pulled the weed away from the young spinach plant, noting the root had snapped off a foot down. It would return, of that he had no doubt.

His calloused fingers barely felt the sharp spines that covered the weed. Stickweed, it was called. Totally inedible, otherwise it would head straight into the boiling pot. Vegetables were too scarce to waste, but no one could eat stickweed. Well, no human.

Daka scooted down the row and knelt at the next cluster of weeds. His hands were a deep brown where they emerged from his baggy rove. The harsh sun had turned him the color of the ground he knelt on, bleached his hair until it was a shaggy mop of russet. The roots next to his scalp were black, but the sun baked the color out of his hair with the same ferocity that it baked it into his skin.

The constant wind whistled and moaned through the rusting oil derricks behind the garden. They were like a garden themselves, planted in rows stretching for over a mile both east and west, and to the south further than the eye could see. A dead garden – none of the derricks had worked in living memory, and now sat shrouded in rust as thick as frosting on a cake. They collapsed occasionally, usually in the frequent windstorms that swept across the mesa. He'd hear a protesting screech of metal, usually followed by a heavy thump, but sometimes there was no sound at all. Daka would simply notice the skyline had changed, see a pile of twisted brown steel that the day before had been thrusting skyward.

He wasn't so old that he didn't go exploring the derrick fields occasionally, but the Poisoned Soil reportedly began just south of the field and Daka got nervous if he went too far in that direction. They said the poison was receding, that the wastelands were shrinking every year, but he didn't want to take any chances. Nomads passed through every month or two, and Daka had seen the twisted bodies of their children. Features warped, missing arms or legs – or both – at birth. The adults weren't safe from the poisons either, if their usually bizarre behavior was any indication. It was because they spent too much time scavenging through the lost cities in the wastelands, walking for days and weeks on poisoned soil. Orr would never let wasteland nomads stay for more than one night. He said it was because he found their behavior too erratic and their hygiene nonexistent. The truth was he afraid the invisible poisons would seep from them and their clothes into the ground. He made a point of quickly bartering away whatever they'd traded for their water, sometimes even taking a loss just to be rid of the tainted salvage quickly.

Daka finished the row and glanced up. The sun was an unrelenting pressure on his head, and under the robe the trickles of sweat ran down his body. Getting close to midday, when only fools and crazies worked out in the sun. There was a dial on the back of the stable, facing the garden, that Orr had told him measured how hot it was, but Daka couldn't see the sense in such a thing. Made no difference in how hot it was, and Daka could tell just by stepping outside in the morning whether it was going to be a scorcher or not. After a lifetime of it he was used to the heat, and today wasn't too bad. The needle pointed to just above 110 on the dial, which meant that by midday it'd be near 120. Only when it hovered near 130 did the heat begin to bother him. In a few months the cold season would begin, and he'd have to start wearing extra layers to keep warm as the needle dropped all the way to 80 some nights.

He stood up and dusted off his robe, waving his hands for air as he found himself enveloped in a grainy cloud, and collected the buckets. The well was off a corner of the stable, the pump an ancient cast-iron manual. As open and unprotected as it was, they'd never had a problem with water thieves. Every visitor always paid or traded for their water, and although there was some occasional grumbling, no one had ever tried to cheat or steal from them.

Orr operated the water depot under the authority of the appointed Governor of the Territory, selling water at the low fixed price set by the Imperial treasurer. As the watermaster of Imperial water depot, even one so far removed from the palace, Orr would have to report any thievery. As there wasn't a person alive in the West who didn't know the penalty for water theft was death, with such penalty being rigorously enforced, theft (of water at least) was unheard of.

Daka filled the two big knee-high buckets and then carried them back towards the garden. The desert heat kept him lean as a snake, but years of grueling labor had given him a surprising strength. He set one bucket down and began carefully watering the rows, taking care to waste no water, tipping the bucket and giving each plant its due as he did once every morning and evening.

When both buckets were empty he carried them back to the pump to refill. The garden, as small as it was this year, still needed eight buckets of water every morning and evening to stay healthy. Eighty gallons of water, each and every day. It made him appreciate just how valuable the well was.

The water that kept the garden alive was, technically, the Queen's, but as the watermaster Orr was allowed to grow whatever food he felt necessary to stay healthy and operate the depot. If there just happened to be a little extra produce that they could sell on the side for a tidy profit to the nutrient-starved nomads, well, they just kept quiet about it.

Daka was at the pump, refilling the buckets for the last time, when he straightened up suddenly and turned around. He looked past the corner of the stable, to the east, where the road that connected them with the world ran along the flat plain for nearly a mile. It climbed a slight rise before disappearing down the back side of the hill into more desolate scrubland.

In the raging midday heat nothing was moving; no rabbits hopping from the shade of one scraggly bush to another, no rock lizards flitting to and fro too quick for the eye to follow, no buzzards circling, waiting for their next meal to expire. Even the clicking dung beetles were silent.

JoTown was out there, twenty-nine miles to the east across the barren scrubland called the Wash, a handful of rickety buildings thrown together around a natural spring and a small mine. Two hundred or so souls, more when the diggers hit a good vein, it was the closest permanent settlement to them on the Southwest Trail.

Daka stared at the horizon where the road disappeared into the shimmering heat mirage, seeing nothing. No movement, no signs of life, nothing. Hurriedly he filled the buckets and carried them back to the garden. With an enviable economy of motion earned through thousands of repetitions he finished watering the rows a plant at a time, without a single drop splashing awry.

He stacked the buckets against the rear wall and moved back toward the pump. Now when he stared into the east he could see a faint smudge against the mirage. It was on the far side of the rise, above the road, growing larger.

The air inside the building was noticeably cooler. Daka felt the sweat cooling and drying on his body as he paused just inside the door and waited for his eyes to adjust. He found Orr in the front room, mending robes.

"Garden weeded and watered, boy?" Orr said in his slow drawl, not looking up from his work.

"Yes sir."

The old man was as thin as a stick and had more wrinkles from decades in the sun than most travelers could believe. His leathery skin was permanently tanned a deep rich mahogany, even though he spent fewer and fewer hours in the sun each day. The stubble on his head matched the grey robe he wore, as thin and creased with age as he was. He had four robes, all identical, so much so that Daka couldn't tell them apart. He'd been wearing them, and looking the same as he did now, for as long as Daka could remember.

"There's a carriage coming," Daka blurted. He watched the old man's gnarled hands as they wove the big needle in and out of the robe's folds expertly.

"Really. This early? From what direction?"

"JoTown," Daka told him.

"That's a place, not a direction," Orr admonished him. "East is a direction. West is a direction. North is a—"

"East."

"East," Orr repeated, nodding his head. "What is it?"

"Single or a double, from the size of the dust cloud. Small, moving pretty fast."

"Would have to be, if they left JoTown at sunup and are here already. Pretty fast indeed." Orr pursed his lips, thinking. They both knew no one traveled the Wash at night. As barren as it was, there were still too many nomads crazy from the poisoned soil and wandering bands of thieves to chance journeying at night. Even male-heavy caravans got attacked at night in the Wash.

"Tanks filled, boy? Stable swept and clean? They come from JoTown this quickly, those ponies are going to need some water."

"Yes sir."

Orr scratched his right eyebrow, then tied his threadwork off with a knot, bit the thread and would the remainder back around the spool. With a grunt he stood up and looked around the room. Nothing was out of place. Water Depot 37 was ready for its next visitors.

"Well boy, let's head outside and greet our guests," Orr said, slipping the spool into his pocket. He was half a head shorter than Daka, and followed in his shadow out the front door onto the concrete pad that ran along the front of the small building.

They peered east along the road, a dirty brown line bisecting a dirty brown world. Orr's eyes weren't what they used to be, and he had to squint hard to see the black dot of the carriage through the mirage. A modest cloud of dust trailed behind it, dissipating slowly in the faint westerly breeze.

Daka's eyes were quite a bit sharper than he old man's. He could make out the two mounts trotting steadily toward the water depot. The carriage behind them was of an unusual shape, and his heart began beating faster with excitement.

Daka had been the stable hand at Water Depot 37 since he'd been tall enough to unhitch the ponies, and before that he'd helped Orr do it. Daka had very little with which to compare it, but Orr's handling and knowledge of ponies seemed expert, and the old man had tried – with some success – to pass those skills on to Daka. Most weeks close to twenty teams crossed his path, pulling wagons (open and covered), carriages, even the occasional stagecoach running from Emerson to Stanleyville. Singles, doubles, teams of four, six, eight, once even a team of twelve heading east from the coast pulling a load of silver nuggets he wasn't supposed to see, destined for the palace he was sure. The fact that the lines of the approaching carriage were alien to him was hard to believe – and very exciting. If he'd been a few years older he might've had the sense to be a little scared, too.

Gradually the carriage drew closer, down the gentle slope and into the plain, through the mirage until even Orr was able to discern its details. The team moved easily through the heat, still in step even after what was perhaps the quickest run from JoTown Daka had ever witnessed. Most ponies working the Wash would be hard-pressed to do twenty-nine miles before late afternoon.

Two hundred yards out the driver reined the ponies back to a fast walk and let them take the lead the rest of the way to the depot building. The dust cloud caught up to the carriage and enveloped it, then gradually faded away. The approaching clip-clopping echoed across the flat landscape.

Orr squinted once again as he stared at the black carriage. Unusual styling, yes, especially for the Wash, but not a style that he hadn't seen before. It had been years, decades in fact, but he recognized it, oh yes he did.

"Stay on your toes, boy," he growled to Daka. "Watch your language, and your eyes. We've got us a Royal."

Heart beating wildly, Daka nodded. He'd suspected as much. His keen eyes had roamed over the carriage's graceful styling, the conditioning of the ponies, and came to the same conclusion. Try as he might, though, he couldn't force his eyes down as the carriage pulled up in front of them and stopped.

The mounts huffed and puffed from the journey. They were covered in dust, as was the carriage, and sweating freely. The sweat made dark-edged trails through the road dust on their muscular haunches, which tensed and relaxed as they shifted their weight back and forth. Absently Daka noticed how well they were trained, not once turning their heads to look past their blinders at him. Three-year-olds, his young but experienced eyes told him. They both had thick blonde manes which would have been spectacular if they hadn't been so dirty from twenty-nine miles of rough unpaved road.

The carriage was small, just wide enough for two people to sit side by side without crowding, but deep enough so that the lone occupant was totally lost in shadow.

As the ponies shuffled restlessly, their harnesses creaking, the driver leaned forward into the bright sunlight and pulled back the dusty hood of her robe. She regarded the two of them with an even, expressionless gaze for several seconds, running her eyes over their plain garb and the aged building before speaking.

"This is the water station I was told of in JoTown?" she asked in a throaty, melodic voice. "The one halfway to Emerson?"

"Water Depot 37 is at your service, milady," Orr said deferentially, bowing his head slightly. "However, I believe someone may have misinformed you. We are twenty-nine miles journey from JoTown; however, it is another fifty-seven to Emerson."

Their visitor frowned slightly and did a few mental calculations.

"Fifty-seven? How is the road?"

"As good as from JoTown to here or better, milady, but the last twenty miles is quite hilly."

There was close to a minute of silence from her as she stared at the two of them, thinking. Daka stared back unabashedly. She was beautiful, with straight jet black hair falling to her shoulders and slightly asian features. Her lips were full, her eyes a vibrant, flashing green. She wore a simple but elegant robe of black, grey, and white that made theirs look like rags.

The carriage was glossy black with a shiny, rounded roof and four large, spindly looking wheels. It seemed quite delicate, but was none the worse for wear after the morning's travel. It had probably traveled a lot farther than that – the Lady was no local.

"Quite hilly, you say," she said finally. "Well, I was just going to stop for water and press on, but my team could for truth use a rest. You have a stable, water?"

"Yes milady," Orr said, nodding and smiling. "Fully equipped. And the boy here is as competent a stablehand as you're going to find anywhere in the territory."

"As you say." She left the reins laying inside the carriage and climbed down. Daka was surprised to see she was as tall as he. When she turned her piercing gaze on him he found himself staring at his feet and blushing without knowing why.

"My team is dry-mouthed and dusty," she told him. "Water them, wash them off, give them something to eat – you do have feed?"

"Yes milady," Daka mumbled. They'd just gotten a fresh supply of PonyMix the day before. Although locally produced, the kibble was as good as any to be had this side of Big River, a high protein, high fat, vitamin enriched, steroid fortified and hormone injected dry food especially formulated for working mounts, the basic recipe unchanged now for close to a hundred years.

"Good. Don't give them too much, I plan to be on the road again in two hours." She eyed the young man, just out of boyhood, skinny as a piece of jerky and about the same color after too many hours baking in the sun. She looked to the old man. He averted his eyes too, as was proper, but she could see the spark of intelligence behind them. He was obviously curious about her, and sharp enough to know her presence here in this remote part of the kingdom, this desolate dustbowl, was of some import, but he kept his questions to himself. So much the better.

"Do you have anything to eat?" she asked the top of Orr's stubbly head.

"Yes milady. We have a complete garden, with everything that'll grow in this heat, and a small chicken coop. The boy here trapped a rabbit yesterday, if you'd prefer that. The meat's a little tough, but much tastier than the chicken. I can cook him up for you. I can also get the dust out of your clothes if you'd like."

"That would be fine," she said, and with a swirl of expensive fabric strode between he and Daka and disappeared into the building.

Orr turned to follow her and saw Daka was staring stupidly after the woman. He smacked the boy hard on the back of his head.

"Mind your work boy," he whispered. "This isn't some ragtag bunch of nomads passing through that doesn't know the difference between piss and PonyMix."

"Yes sir."

CHAPTER TWO—THE STABLEBOY

Leaving the reins in the carriage Daka grabbed the bit of the nearest mount and led the team around the building to the stable's wide double doors. They stepped in unison even for him, stopping at the slightest pressure.

He opened the stable doors, then unhitched the team from the carriage's T-bar one at a time. It was a connection of a type he hadn't seen before, simple yet sturdy. Each pony had a steel ring set into its harness in the center of its back. At the corners of the T-bar were springloaded steel clips that hooked onto the harness rings. Very simple, yet strong.

The carriage rolled so smoothly on its bearings it took his breath away -- he almost fell trying to pull it into the stable, expecting more resistance. He found he could guide the carriage with two fingers, and even coated in gritty road dust from the long journey the wheels turned soundlessly. He parked it in a corner of the stable and chocked a wheel with a wood block, then went back outside to collect the ponies.

After a lifetime spent as a stablehand Daka, consciously or not, considered himself something of an expert on ponies. The two before him were like none he'd ever seen before, although he'd heard stories.

Most teams that worked the Wash were lean and dark and stringy with muscle, built for long hauls through the desert heat. Most were mixed stock or bred from ponies of dubious quality to begin with, overworked, underfed, and poorly trained (if at all). As a rule they were painfully thin and covered with the gritty dust that blew incessantly across the desolate flatland. The Wash was not a rich land by any means or measure, and its residents had to make do with what was at hand. Daka more than a few times had to deal with first generation ponies broken (more or less) to the bit. They'd been captured and put to work, or sold into the bit to pay off a debt. They were usually nothing but trouble, but he never had a sharp word for them – he didn't know how they managed it, pulling a wagon through the Wash. He suspected many couldn't, and died from the heat.

These two were of the finest stock he'd ever seen, at least tenth generation he was sure (he'd never seen anything higher than purebred sixth), raised, trained, and bred to the bit. They weren't desert ponies, thin and burned the color of stained wood, that much he'd seen when they were still a quarter mile out. Their legs were freakishly thick with muscle, totally out of proportion to their bodies, and while they were lean they couldn't come close to the veined stringiness of true desert runners. Even though their legs were more muscular than any he'd seen, he still didn't think they were broadmares. Even though he'd never seen one, he'd heard stories about the high-gen draws, about how big they now were, and these two just didn't have the bulk. Sprinters, perhaps, or a racing team. If they had, in fact, done the trip from JoTown in less than four hours, that confirmed Daka's suspicions. They'd been panting and sweating, sure, but not nearly as much as they should have been. The teams he regularly saw would have been exhausted after such a run, cramping up, but he suspected it was just the latest leg for these ponies in a journey that had begun far to the east of JoTown.

As he studied them he wondered perhaps if they were sisters. They were identical in every way, so much so that he worried about mixing them up. Left should stay on the left when he rehitched them to the carriage. Switching sides might confuse them or slow them down, depending on how they'd been trained.

After a minute's study, Daka noticed that the right one's ownership mark was further down inside the hollow of its left buttock. It was a symbol he didn't recognize, flames inside of a circle about the size of his palm. He suddenly realized their marks were tattoos, not brands. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen that before, a sure sign the ponies came from wealth. For his own purposes he began to think of them as High and Low.

While he was studying their tattoos Low began to get a little restless, shifting her weight back and forth and looking at him with her big brown eyes. He knew immediately what was going on and led her a few steps from the stable door. She wasted no time, squatting and quickly defecating two small stools into the dirt. They were small and hard and nearly black to Daka's eye, indicating a steady diet of good quality PonyMix. He kicked dirt over them and made a mental note to shovel the dung up later. They stored it in a pile and composted it, later using the compost to fertilize the garden.

Daka led the two highbred mounts into a cleaning stall by the reins still hooked to their bits. He unhooked the reins and draped them over the shoulder-high wall. The cleaning stall was cinderblock walls covered with ceramic tile, and a concrete floor with a drain in the center. Big enough to fit two ponies side by side with room for him to move around without banging into the walls. Inside, he could smell their sweaty musk, and the heat coming off their bodies.

The tie bar was already attached to the pulleys, so Daka ran the chain hand over hand until the bar rose up to eye level. He unhooked High first, unbuckling the wide strap than ran across her collarbones and kept the armsleeve from slipping off. Once the strap was undone all he had to do was loosen the laces at the base of her neck and the sleeve holding High's arms slipped right off. Her wrists were cuffed together behind her back, tucked up between her shoulder blades, the backs of her hands together. The cuffs were simple bands of leathyr, and more traditional than necessary – once the armsleeve was in place her hands weren't going anywhere, cuffed or not. Daka unhooked them, unfolded her arms, then brought them around in front of her and hooked her wrists to the steel bar hanging before her. She stood docilely by as he freed her arms and then resecured them, but then of course he would have been astounded if she hadn't – only first generation ponies ever thought to struggle. Some of the captured mounts the nomads brought through . . . Daka shook his head at the memory. Some actually tried to talk to him, begged him to release them. If their owners heard the result usually was a beating, or worse. He'd learned never to unhook the bit of any mare that looked fresh to the life.

He quickly did the same for Low, removing her armsleeve and hooking her to the bar, then cranked the bar up until their arms were fully outstretched. The two were side by side a foot and a half apart, and stared blankly at the pitted wall of the stable. He didn't know if it was fatigue or training that kept them from paying him much attention.

Daka examined the armsleeves with curiosity. At first glance they seemed to be just the standard black leathyr pony gear, but his fingers told him that it wasn't leathyr, at least not the type he was used to seeing. It was thinner, and seemed stronger. It took a year before the acidic ponysweat started pitting standard leathyr. He was sure this leathyr would last longer.

He kept their gear separate in case they wore slightly different sizes. Next he unlaced the steel reinforced corsets with the T-bar rings in back, noticing how perfectly they fit. He knew now that the gear was custom made for these individual mounts. The corsets were made from the same near-leathyr, reinforced with contoured inch-wide vertical steel strips, what used to be called "boning". Since the corsets fit so snugly the laces didn't have to be nearly so tight. Daka appreciated the workmanship, and not just because it would make his job easier when it came time to lace them back up. Their stomachs when revealed were flat walls of muscle, slightly concave from a lifetime spent in corset.

Next he unbuckled the stiff collars that kept the mounts' heads up, and began unlacing High's right hoofboot. They were unremarkable in appearance, just the standard heel-less style, knee high, with a protective shield protruding upward to protect the knee, but when Daka pulled the first one off he was surprised at its weight. It was so light! Half that of a standard boot.

He turned it over and pressed a thumbnail against the inch-thick sole. There was the right amount of give, but it wasn't the standard rubber. Much lighter, perhaps a racing boot, but it seemed to be holding up on their trek across the Wash just fine. Daka unlaced the other boot to below High's calf and pulled it off also. She flexed her toes and wiggled her feet in relief. They were pink and sweaty, and he wondered if taking the boots off had been a good idea. What if their feet swelled up? It could happen, especially if they weren't used to long runs in such heat. Getting the boots back on then would be close to impossible – he knew firsthand about that.

The muscles of High's legs were taut and almost trembling. He put a palm against her thigh, evaluating, finally deciding the ponies were just dangerously dehydrated. Her feet were in fine shape, no blisters at all, and any worries he had about them swelling vanished.

Daka eyed High's legs with an expert's authority. Her calf muscles were high and round, shapely and clearly defined. Up close her thighs were just as massive as they'd seemed as she'd trotted up the road, the biggest he'd ever seen. His seemed twig-like in comparison. Her buttocks were as high and round as some black-skinned ponies he'd worked on, and hard enough to crack walnuts between them with one flex.

He deftly unlaced and pulled Low's boots off, finding they were made of the same unusual material. In bare feet the ponies were only a few inches taller than he was, but he was taller than most men. Of course, they were standing on the balls of their feet, as if they were still wearing their contoured heel-less hoofboots. He supposed if he kept them out of their boots long enough, perhaps three or four days, they might sink down to their heels, but he'd never seen it. Ponies never stayed that long at the depot. In their boots they were a good head taller than he, another sign they came from good stock. Longer legs meant a longer stride, and ponies were bred for a purpose.

Finally he unhooked their headgear, gently removing the rubber coated metal bits. While he hunted up a bucket, bar of soap, and a soft-bristled brush the ponygirls worked their jaws and licked their dry lips. Their teeth were bright white and perfectly even. Daka didn't know what to make of that – usually only young ponies had good teeth, as the bit tended to spread and grind down the molars and incisors, but these girls obviously had been in harness awhile. Three-year-olds was what he'd guessed before, and hadn't seen anything so far to change his opinion. A pony's age was calculated from the time it became physically mature, reached its full height -- that was the point at which ponies were generally considered capable of work, even though they were put to task as soon as they could walk in most cases. Five- to ten-year-old ponies were usually considered the most desirable, as they had they right combination of strength, experience, and endurance. Most fifteen-year-olds had already lost a step or two, and so went down in value and desirability. Daka wasn't as confident in his guess as to the age of the mounts as he might otherwise have been. These two looked like three-year-olds in the face, but they ran like ten-year-olds.

The water bottle was suspended from a steel arm in the corner. Daka swung it over to the cleaning stall and lowered it so High could reach it. It was equipped with a bite valve, and she lost no time wrapping her lips around the rubber-tipped steel drinking tube. She thirstily sucked down the cool water in huge gulps.

"Not too fast, you don't want to cramp up," Daka admonished her. He undid the black strings restraining both their blond manes, then grabbed the rubber hose. It was hooked up to a thirty gallon gravity-feed tank in the rafter that Daka had topped off that morning. He removed his dusty robe and kicked off his sandals, nude but for a loincloth.

Aiming the nozzle Daka squeezed the trigger and began rinsing off Low. As the cool water splashed over her hot skin she shivered and gooseflesh rose over her whole body. Some splashed onto her teammate, who shivered also but never stopped drinking. Low's big nipples knotted up under the cold water. Brown water began trickling into the drain.

When she was good and drenched Daka dropped the hose, lathered up his hands with the bar of soap, and started with her hair. Since they were heading back out he only lathered it once, making sure to rinse it thoroughly. Then he rubbed the soap onto the brush until its soft bristles were good and foamy and began scrubbing the dirt out of the ponygirl's skin. He'd stop every few minutes and relather the brush, but the mounts didn't require much scrubbing. Mostly it was just sweat and churned up road dust caked on their legs. As it ran off them down the drain he saw they were much paler than the ponies he was used to. Their shoulders even looked a bit red from the sun under their light brown tans.

It wasn't until he was face to face with them that he realized how large their breasts were. Most mounts in the Wash had small breasts if they had any, usually burned brown from the sun, pancaked flat and stretchmarked from the constant bouncing. These ponies' breasts were not only large, they were firm as well. As he ran the brush over them he was surprised at their bounce. They barely folded over at all, and were big enough that he wasn't sure he'd be able to reach around one and have his fingertips touch. He didn't remember seeing them bouncing wildly as the carriage drew close, and with their firmness he could see why. Another sign they were young. He became more confident in his guess at their age. Their broad, sloping breast-tops were only lightly tanned, with nipples just half a shade darker than the rest of the breast.

Both High's and Low's nipples sported the traditional gold rings of upper class mounts. The rings had the normal two inch inner diameter and were thick as pencils. Real gold, too, at least as far as Daka could tell. The weight hadn't made their nipples sag at all. Most ponyrings were a little thinner in gauge, but even so usually caused ring bulge, a permanent enlargement of the nipples. These mounts had it, but not to the extent of some that he'd seen.

Low's legs were hot and hard as stone. He used the brush to clean them thoroughly, her feet too, before using a wet rag to get between her toes and the folds between her thighs. They were both bignoses – among the higher gen ponies, it was fairly common to find the tiny nub between their legs had grown to the size of the end of a big man's thumb. These ponies' were half again as large, and they weren't even engorged. Surrounded by its fleshy hood such an oversized nub looked like nothing so much as another nose between the pony's thighs. Bignose was his private nickname for them, not that he saw too many in the Wash's desolate depths.

The few upper class mounts he'd seen had belled nipple rings that jangled as they ran, but these two didn't. However, there were wear marks on the bottom of Low's rings, like the bells there had been removed. From their rosebuds they were no strangers to tailplugs either, but they'd apparently gone without them this trip. Big ones, too, if he was any judge. He didn't see any sense in using the purely decorative extravagances on working mounts, especially in the Wash where life was hard enough, but all the royal racing mounts wore them, so . . . Running with a tailplug in place quickly calloused and enlarged the muscle ring on a pony. The longer they wore one the bigger and more pronounced their rosebud got, even at rest. Some ponies never got used to running with one, and it slowed them down. On long journeys, such as the one he suspected his new charges were taking, it made much more sense to run the ponies bareback.

Daka used the soapy rag to scrub Low's hard buttocks and between her legs. High had finished with the water bottle and as he knelt behind her teammate he watched the pony piss on the floor. The urine was dark yellow, almost orange, sure sign they'd needed a water stop.

He rinsed the last of the soap off Low and then swung the water bottle over so she could take a drink. Almost immediately she released the contents of her bladder, and Daka sprayed her legs off again as soon as she finished.

As he began expertly lathering up the second mount's blonde mane the green eyed visitor, who'd been silently watching him for several minutes, glided forward.

CHAPTER THREE—THE VISITOR

"You've got an expert touch," she complimented him.

Daka jumped and nearly dropped the soap. He turned to see the mysterious visitor at the entrance to the cleaning stall. Her dusty overrobe was gone, revealing the finely made white sleeveless closerobe she wore beneath. It was nothing more than an ankle-length stretchsilk sheath that clung to her every curve, slit up each side past her hip. The silk was the finest he'd ever seen and so thin the color of her flesh shone through. Wearing undergarments would have ruined its lines entirely. Daka tried not to stare at her abundant cleavage, but not only was she lavishly proportioned but her plainly visible areola were surprisingly large. Such pale skin . . . . Her hair was longer than he'd thought, reaching nearly to the middle of her back, and looking blacker than night against the white silk. She wore tiny black boots with chrome trim.

"Th-Thank you, milady," Daka managed to get out. The ponies turned their heads slightly to watch their mistress, Low still drinking.

The Lady was surprised. She'd been expecting a ham-handed, ignorant wretch of a stableboy that could barely tell the difference between a bit and a hoofboot. Instead, as she'd studied him from the shadows, she'd seen an experienced stablehand cleaning her ponies with the speed and skill of someone twice his age. His movements were deft and professional, and he'd apparently never even thought of taking liberties with her two mounts. That'd been a constant problem on her trip west, finding competent stablehands that could keep their organs in their pants. You'd think these ignorant westerners had never seen a well-built pony before.

"How long have you been tending ponies?" she asked him. Daka finished with High's hair and began using the brush on her sweaty skin.

"Since I was big enough to reach," Daka said. "I remember as a boy having to stand on a stool to clean between their fingers."

"When did you come to this depot?"

"Oh, I've been here all my life, milady." He stared at the pony he was washing as he talked. Looking at the visitor was too distracting, and he didn't want to do a poor job of washing her mount.

She looked around the drab stable, trying to imagine living a lifetime here. Still, if it was all one knew . . . .

"Milady, may I ask, are these two sisters?" Daka said nervously.

She smiled mysteriously. "Not quite your usual pony out here in the desert, I would imagine."

"No milady. Most mounts I see are much stringier," he admitted. "Some in poor condition, or new to the bit, or hairy ," he said with some measure of disgust. High and Low were blessedly smooth of skin below the neck. "These are spectacular specimens. Three year olds?" he wondered aloud.

She studied her mounts, as if seeing them for the first time, and after a few seconds nodded her head in approval. "You'd think so, from their young faces. I'm guessing you don't see much high-gen purebred stock out here. Probably not any genbred at all. They're six-year-olds, actually, but purebreds are maturing earlier and earlier, and genbreds like these mares grow like weeds. If they were of normal stock they might not even be full grown yet."

Daka's brow wrinkled. "I have not heard the term 'genbred' before, milady."

"I thought not. In answer to your question, yes, in a way they are sisters. Let's just say they're a special kind of twin. I don't suppose you know what a clone is?"

"No, milady."

"I thought as much. Well, a genbred is a special type of purebred, done in a way so as to leave nothing to chance. They're doing much the same thing with assayan, I'm told."

Daka nodded, even though he hadn't heard the term 'assayan' before either. He didn't want to appear too ignorant. "At first I thought they were exhausted from that amazing morning run," he told her, "but now I see they were just dry. Dangerously so. They're not used to running in this kind of heat, are they?" Both ponies were much more alert after drinking their fill, and were beginning to shift their weight restlessly about. The fact that they weren't dead tired from the twenty-nine mile morning run was simply amazing.

"It's the dryness as much as the heat," she admitted. "I left later than I'd planned, long after sun-up. This desert just bled the speed right out of them."

Daka frowned. "If I may ask, milady, what time did you leave JoTown?"

"Why?" She seemed genuinely curious.

Daka shrugged. "It's just that few have made it to our depot from JoTown before noon."

"I believe the journey took us just under three hours."

Three hours! It seemed impossible. That would mean the team would have had to average six-minute miles. Ten miles an hour! They were not running nearly that fast when Daka spotted them at the end of their trip, which meant they were running faster than a six-minute mile pace at the start. Incredible.

Daka nodded like her news held no surprises and moved to the far side of High to scrub at her ribcage. The robed woman's eyes flew wide.

"What is that?" she said, pointing.

Daka looked around in confusion, finally realizing she was pointing to his shoulder. The tattoo there was fuzzy-edged and faded with time, the pattern blurry but still discernable. A six-pointed star over a cutlass, all inside a circle the size of his palm.

"Just a tattoo, m'lady."

"Where did you get it? Who gave it to you?" Her voice was demanding, almost shrill.

"I have no idea, m'lady. I've had it as long as I can remember." He crouched and scrubbed at the mare's thick legs.

The robed visitor watched Daka with slitted eyes. He had an athletic if slim build, head and arms burned brown from the sun. Very tall, three or four inches over six feet, wide shoulders, with well defined musculature topped by a ratty nest of overlong sunfried brown hair. In other circumstances his washboard stomach would have perhaps caused her to tarry, but not now. His body was dusty and spotted with washwater. Totally hairless, but that was to be expected living this close to the Poisoned Lands. The loincloth he wore was a simple piece of what looked like burlap tied around his waist, stained with sweat. Ugh.

Without another word she turned and swept back through the doorway into the depot's living area. Orr was busy chopping greens and tossing them into a bowl, and she could smell meat cooking somewhere. He'd beaten the dust, as well he could, out of her formal robe and laid it on a chair. She studied the robe thoughtfully – it was folded sleeve over sleeve in the manner that was practiced inside the royal city.

"I was watching your son wash my mounts," she said, "and I noticed—"

"He's not my son, milady, begging your pardon."

She turned and looked at him, eyebrows raised. "Oh?'

"I have had him since he was barely old enough to walk, milady, but he's not my son. Cost me a fair bit at the time, but I suppose he's been worth it."

"I see. Did you give him that tattoo on his shoulder?"

"No ma'am, that was there when I bought him."

"Do you know whence he received it?"

"No milady. I figured it for an ownership mark. Is there a problem?" Could the boy have been stolen property? Wouldn't that be a thing, and after all these years.

The woman ignored the question. "From whom did you buy him?"

"Well . . . ." Orr thought back, trying very hard not to stare at the abundant breasts before his nose. The slit in her robe revealed a sliver of muscled thigh and rounded hip. He hadn't lain with a woman in a very long time, but apparently he wasn't too old to want to. He dropped his eyes to the scuffed wood counter. "I'd just gotten word from the governor that I was going to be the new depotmaster here, and I knew there'd be more work than what I could handle by myself. In Agave I ran across an old nomad leading a half dozen or so children. Daka was the only boy, and barely old enough to walk and talk, but he looked healthy, so I bought him. Also bought the oldest girl he had. Wasn't full grown yet, but she was the only one didn't look sick and the price was right. I figured she could do the chorework until Daka got big enough, and the nomad said he'd already broken her in."

"Where is the girl?"

"She died not much more than a year later. Snakebite," he explained. "Never have had the money to replace her."

"Daka," the woman murmured, mulling over the name.

"That's what I named him, milady."

"Any idea where the nomad acquired him?"

"No milady, haven't a clue. If he ever said anything I've forgotten it now. I doubt he did. They're a pretty closemouthed people."

"I wouldn't have assumed he was your son but I saw no ownership tag or brand."

Orr laughed, his eyes lighting up. "Now that's a story," he said, chortling. "He's got one, that's for sure. You should ask him to tell you the story . . . " Orr realized he was getting a little too familiar with the noblewoman and looked back to his work The next time he looked up she was gone. He hadn't thought about Leura in years. A shame, really, but at least he'd had her for that year. Such an pliant, agreeable girl.

"Show me your ownership tag," the woman commanded Daka.

The two ponies were happily munching away on ponymix through gravity-fed feed bags, still hooked to the tie-bar. Daka was cleaning off their gear when the woman reappeared and gave him the order.

Daka set down the hose and the salt-encrusted corset he was holding and turned around. He wondered what Orr had been telling her, but dutifully untied his loincloth and let it drop to the stable's cement floor. The steel ownership tag flashed in the light from the window as it swung between his legs, hanging from the gold ring piercing the head of his organ.

He'd never taken liberties with any mounts, but when two young women, part of a group of royal wetnurses passing through, had peeked into the stable to see him he'd been busy scrubbing between the legs of a particularly well-built mare, and they'd misinterpreted his actions. Or maybe they hadn't, and were just those kind of girls. Orr and the coach's driver, who was supposed to be acting as chaperone as well, were being entertained in the front room by two of the young women. Four other wetnurses took the opportunity of the distraction to surprise Daka in the stable and overpower him. This had been four years previous, just before his last growth spurt, and they'd all been bigger and stronger than he.

As punishment for what they'd said was a mischievous indiscretion by him the laughing young women held him down, stripped him, and produced a large needle of the type used to repair leather. With a woman sitting on each of his limbs and his own loincloth stuffed into his mouth as a gag, Daka had been powerless.

The instigator of the action, a chunky brunette with a massive chest, blouse damp from her perpetually leaking teats, slid the big needle into the hole at the end of his organ and out through the skin on its underside. He yelled and bucked, but that only seemed to encourage them. They produced the gold ring from somewhere and slid it through the new hole in the end of his organ, as an afterthought removing the tag from the chain around his neck and placing it on the ring.

Daka told the noble born his story without shame, insisting ". . . but I wasn't taking any liberties with their mounts. I wouldn't!"

"Did you tell your owner what happened when they left?"

He hung his head and shook it. "Not for a week, and only then because it got infected."

"Why didn't you remove the ring?" she wondered aloud.

"We didn't have a metal saw at the time, didn't have one for close to two years. By that time I was used to it."

She didn't have the heart to tell him it was a captive bead ring, that with the right size reverse pliers she could have removed it from his organ in seconds. It probably didn't matter now anyway, he'd worn it so long. The gold ring was big, one step down from the ones through her own mares' nipples. Absently she wondered if the young man knew how unusual his organ was in size. Probably not, unless . . . .

"Have you ever laid with a woman?" she asked him directly, peering into Daka's eyes.

He colored slightly and looked down. "No milady," he mumbled.

"What about ponies? Mares? Have you ever taken someone's mount?"

"No milady," he said forcefully. "Never." Although that hadn't been easy. Some of the mares that came through were quite spirited, and it'd been more than once that he'd had ponylegs wrapped around him as he tried to finish the washing. Their grip was so strong sometimes he just couldn't break free, and he had to wait until they were done grinding on his hip before he could finish his duties.

The woman leaned forward and he felt the full impact of her forceful gaze. "You've never spilled your seed?" she demanded. "Never?"

Daka blushed a deeper red and tried to look away, but she grabbed his chin and yanked his head around.

"W—Well," he stammered, "after the wetnurses put the ring in they kept grabbing at me, and it – it just happened," he said. "They all laughed." She kept her iron grip on his chin, not letting him look away.

"And?" she prompted him.

"And . . . sometimes when I'm alone in the stable . . . ." he couldn't finish the sentence, he was too embarrassed, but that was fine. She'd heard what she needed to. She released his chin and straightened up.

"It's all right," she told him. "Finish cleaning the leathers, and wipe down the carriage as well. "But don't go poking around inside it, understand? That's off limits."

"Yes milady." Daka couldn't meet her eyes. His heart was hammering away in his chest, afraid his half-lie to her would somehow be discovered. The first time with the wetnurses, that had been an accident. Quite a surprise for everyone involved. There'd been some laughing, but also quite a bit of interest. The busty one had grabbed him again and began deliberately stroking his organ. The others kept him pinned to the stable floor and egged her on. She seemed no stranger to the task and masterfully brought him to a second climax, grunting and twitching, in just a few minutes.

"There's some wood in you, boy," she'd said almost admiringly then, one hand wrapped around his still hard member.

"Work him again," one of the other wetnurses said in a hoarse voice. They'd gotten much quieter, watching Daka's big shaft being stroked. For two of the four it was a new experience, not just seeing a man's seed leave his body but being able to gaze uninterrupted at what makes a man a man.

Even with the pain of the fresh ring distracting him Daka came again after but a few short minutes. Daka had the natural stamina of youth, and when he didn't wither away in her hand after the third time the now visibly aroused wetnurse lifted up her skirts and made to sit atop his pole, ring, tag, and all. Just then the driver/chaperone called unseen from the doorway and the women scrambled up and away from Daka. He was left alone in the stable with just the team of eight bignoses that had brought the young women in, the ponies having watched the whole incident. It had gotten them agitated, of course, with bignoses that was easy to spot, which only made his job more difficult. He had to rush around like a madman to get them ready for the road in time.

"When you're done with that," the noblewoman continued, "I see you've got some massage oil here." She nodded at the bottle. "Rub down their legs, give them a really good deep muscle massage. Keeps them from getting cramps. Do you know how to do that?"

"Yes milady."

"Good. And wash yourself, too, you're dusty and sweaty. When you're done come back inside. Put on some clean clothes, if you have any."

"Yes milady."

Massaging her ponies' thick legs took as much time as everything else combined. By the time he was done his fingers and forearms were aching, but the mounts were visibly relaxed. Their buttocks had been like rocks! He could barely bend his thumbs.

The worked-in oil gave their skin a soft sheen, and, as was common, the folds between their thighs had been moist by the time he finished. Perhaps he should've put his loincloth back on before the rubdown, so they'd be less distracted, but neither of them had tried anything. Another sign of good training, on top of their excellent breeding and temperament.

Cleaning himself up was last on his list. He used the soap on his hair and scrubbed the dirt and sweat off his skin. The ponies kept trying to turn and watch him, although it was harder for them since he'd put spreader bars on their legs after the rubdown. Otherwise they might start squeezing their thighs together and work themselves up again.

CHAPTER FOUR—CHANGE OF LIFE

By the time he was drying off the wind had picked up outside and was whistling loudly through the cracks in the stable walls. He found a clean loincloth and tied it around his waist as he walked to a window and peered out. Even through glass ripply with age the coming sandstorm was easy to spot. Ten minutes out, maybe, coming from the west as they always did.

There wasn't a clean robe inside the stable for him to wear, so he entered the living quarters wearing just the loincloth. The lingering smell of food got his stomach rumbling, but their visitor had already finished eating. When he came through the door she was sitting at the small table while Orr cleaned and put away her dirty dishes. It looked like they'd been having an intense discussion, but all talking between them ended as Daka entered the room. Orr looked at him with a strange expression on his face that Daka couldn't read.

"Come here, boy," she told him. "All cleaned up?" She turned on the small bench seat and motioned him to stand before her. "Take that thing off," she directed, waving at the loincloth.

Unsure of what was to follow but well trained to obey commands Daka untied the clean loincloth and exposed himself to the noblewoman again. In the stable was one thing, with the dirt and the cleaning stall and water hose, but here, at the eating table, her beautiful face and swollen breasts just inches away from his organ . . . .

If she noticed it stiffening in her face, and there was no way she couldn't, she gave no sign. She grabbed his ownership tag and lifted it in her palm into the light so she could read it. His name, his owner's name, and the location of the water depot in case he ran away and had to be returned.

She kept her face completely neutral, but as the organ unfurled to full staff in front of her she realized she'd underestimated its size. Thick and long and uncut. Hooking a finger through the big ring she lifted the organ, and pulled back on the foreskin with her other hand, checking the crevices. She lifted his penis further, checking its underside, then had Daka turn around and pull his cheeks apart. Satisfied that his hygiene was acceptable, she directed him to cover himself up and find a fresh robe. Orr busied himself at the sink and pretended not to have noticed.

Daka hurriedly tied the loincloth around his waist, his cock an iron bar that tented the fabric, and hurried off to find a robe. When he returned the wind had increased to such force that even their visitor noticed the change.

"Dust storm," Daka said to her querying look. "Have to wait until it's over before moving on again, milady."

She frowned and moved to the window. The front of the storm enveloped the depot house a few seconds later, and the sunlight coming in the window was cut to a quarter of what it had been. The sand was a hissing rattle against the window glass.

The woman stared out the window at the featureless brown swirls. "There's no way to travel in this? I was hoping on leaving soon."

"No milady. The wind's so fierce it'll make your skin raw in just a few minutes, and there's no way to tell direction. If you're ever out traveling and get stuck in one, best to stop right where you are, hunker down, and ride it out. Try to keep going and you'll lose the road and likely as not drive right off a cliff."

"How long will it last?" she asked, thinking of her plans.

"No way to tell," Orr said. "Ten minutes or two days, it's anybody's guess. But normally just an hour or two."

"And it's fifty-seven miles to Emerson."

"Yes milady, hilly the last twenty."

"Right." She did the mental calculations, then sighed. She wasn't going out in that , no matter how pressed for time she was. Either she'd make her rendezvous or she wouldn't.

"Looks like I'm here for a while," she sighed. Orr finished the dishes and stepped out from behind the counter, clasping his hands in front of him, ever the helpful depotmaster. Sitting at the table, her entire right leg and part of a buttock were revealed to him through the slit in the closerobe. She seemed unmindful of it. The woman's eyes roamed the shelves covering nearly one whole wall of the room. "Is that a chess set?"

"Yes milady."

"Do you play?"

"Yes milady," Orr replied. "Would you like me to set it up?" She nodded and he grabbed the small wooden box. He emptied the pieces onto the scratched worn wood, then turned the box over and set it down on the table. Chessboard squares were inlaid into its surface and he began setting the pieces up.

"Can you play chess?" she asked Daka.

"Yes ma'am, but I'm not nearly as good as he is."

She turned back to Orr. "Are you good?"

"This far into the Wash, it's rare that I even find someone to play against, much less anyone with formal schooling, and—"

She cut off his attempts to convince her he was a dunce. She'd seen the light in his eyes.

"Let me say this," she told him, with a steady gaze. "I'll be much more upset it I find out you've thrown the game than if I am honestly defeated."

Orr pursed his lips and nodded, lining the pawns up.

The woman's eyes lifted to the hundreds of books on the shelf, noting classics, science textbooks, a wide range of subject matter. She stood and peered at them more closely.

"Have you read any of these books?" she asked Daka as she sat back down at the table. Orr took his place opposite her and studied the board.

"Yes milady."

Well, at least he can read , she thought. "Which ones?"

"All of them, milady."

Her eyes jerked up in surprise and met Orr's steady gaze. After a few seconds she gave a nod of her head, and then the game began.

There were no chores left to be done inside the building, and besides, he knew bustling around would only annoy Orr (who was bent over the chessboard), so Daka grabbed a book and sat in the corner. The tome was one of his favorites, an old thick volume of fantastic fables he never tired of.

For a long time the only sounds from inside the depot were the click of chess pieces and the rasp of turning pages. The wind howled and whirled mightily around them, sand clicking against the windows like hail. Daka checked on the ponies once, only to find they'd fallen asleep in their feed bags standing up. He unhooked the bags so they could breathe properly. Neither so much as twitched.

Orr won the first game handily, boxing in her king with a deft series of seemingly random advances. The lady frowned, but seemed more unhappy with her own performance than the end result. The second game was more closely fought, but in the end she lost again.

"Maybe I should be playing you," she told Daka as Orr reset the board for a third game. She noticed the old man glancing at her chest from time to time and briefly considered resting her silk-clad bosom on the table before the board to distract him from his game. Then she grew disgusted with herself for even thinking such a thing. And her being noble born, what would her clanmates say?

As they neared the finish of the third game, another closely fought battle, each player with only a few pieces left on the board, Daka set down his book and walked to the window. Outside the wind seemed strong as ever, the swirling sand making it impossible for him to see beyond the far side of the road. The dust storm was nearly two hours old.

"Halfway over," Daka said to no one in particular, still staring out the window.

"What?" Distracted, the woman looked up from the board where her long-battling queen was running out of options.

"The dust storm's halfway over, milady," he repeated.

"Now how do you know that? I thought you said there was no way to tell how long it would last."

"There isn't, but somehow he always knows when it's half over," Orr told her. "I think it has something to do with the storm perhaps having an 'eye', with reduced atmospheric pressure that he senses as it passes through. Checkmate, milady."

A very unladylike torrent of profanity spilled past her full lips as she shook her head. She knocked over her king after a glance at the board told her she had lost yet again.

"Pardon me," she said. "I have better manners, but sometimes I forget myself. Reduced atmospheric pressure, you say?" She glanced over at Daka. "Interesting."

"Another game?" Orr said carefully.

"I think not. I think we've established that I'm not much of an opponent for you." She stood up and moved away from the table.

"Do you have somewhere I can get some rest?" she asked. "I'll be traveling through the night, so if I've got another two hours until the storm breaks I want to catch some sleep."

"Yes milady. There's a bed in that room there with a serviceable mattress."

"Boy," she told Daka, "let my girls sleep as long as possible, but I want them in harness by the time the wind's died down enough for us to move."

"Yes milady."

Daka stepped into the dark bedroom and let his eyes adjust to the light. When he could see well enough not to trip over anything he moved to the side of the bed.

"Milady?" he whispered at the form on the mattress. "Milady? The storm's—" He reached a hand out to touch her shoulder, and yelped as the bed exploded in a rustle of flying fabric and a gleaming flash. Daka stood frozen, heart hammering wildly, as he felt the blade against his neck. There was a pause, then with a huff she let go of the front of his robe.

"Has the storm passed?" she asked, sliding the blade back into a boot. She was barely more than a silhouette in the dim room.

Daka swallowed. "In just a few minutes, milady. Your mounts are in the leathyrs, ready to be hooked to the carriage."

"Good. You'll find some skins in the carriage. Fill them up with water and check the wheels for cracks."

"Yes milady," he said, scurrying off. He'd already checked the wheels when he'd wiped down the carriage. As he hunted for the skins on the floor of the deep carriage he touched his fingers to the spot on his neck where he'd felt the prick of the blade. They came away speckled with blood, already thickening.

The ponies were huffing and stamping their legs, eager to be off. Their bit-reins were reattached and loosely tied to one of the center stable beams. In their hoofboots the two mares were again taller than he, although not by much. Daka looked out the window and saw the wind had died down to infrequent gusts, although the horizon was still a hazy brown from all the airborne particles.

With a clank Daka set a pail on the concrete at High's feet. She squatted over it briefly, releasing only a small splash of urine that echoed loudly off the metal. She moved over to let Low do the same. Daka rolled open the stable doors and kicked at the ridge of windblown sand that had accumulated against them. After emptying the bucket out around the corner he pulled the carriage out, then led the ponies out by the reins and hooked them to the T-bar. He double-checked all their lacings and buckles, making sure their leathyrs were tight so they wouldn't chafe, then made final adjustments to their blinders and bits. The mares stared blankly ahead through it all, hardly glancing at him. He'd heard rumors that high-gen ponies were in fact dumber than the stringy mares he usually saw, that the intelligence was being deliberately bred out of them, but until now he'd never given those stories much credence. These two just stared off into the distance most of the time, hardly giving him a glance even when he'd been washing them. Perhaps it wasn't a lack of intelligence with High and Low, maybe it was just excellent training.

He led the team around to the front of the depot building, the mares staying in step automatically. He described a big circle with the ponies and carriage to get them pointed in the right direction on the road, then ran the reins back and set them in the carriage.

The front door opened and their mysterious visitor emerged. Her hair was freshly brushed, a new hint of color on her lips, and she raised the hood of her newly donned outer robe to protect her face from the sandy gusts. Orr stepped through the doorway behind her and watched Daka.

"Milady," Daka said. "Your carriage is ready."

The top half of her face was in shadow below the robe's hood. All he could see was her mouth with its full, sensuous lips and slightly pointed chin. The chin turned his way and her head cocked slightly.

"You're going with her, boy," Orr called out to him. Daka looked at the old man, the confusion plain on his face.

"She's bought you," Orr told him. "She's your Mistress now, do as she says."

Daka's mouth hung open. "But—" he began, looking from Orr to the woman and back to Orr.

Her mouth was still all he could see of her face, and now her lips were tightly pursed. "Get in the carriage," she told him sharply, then turned her head to look at the horizon to the west.

"But . . . I'm . . . ." He looked around wildly, at the two figures with no sympathy or compassion on their faces, at the depot building, the attached stable, and the garden beyond.

"Who'll tend the garden?" he pleaded desperately to Orr. "And work the stables? You're—"

"Get in the carriage, boy," Orr growled. "You're not too big now to be whipped."

"Get in before I lose patience," his new owner told him in a tone that said he would very much like that not to happen.

Numbly, Daka climbed into the carriage and sat on the front edge, not willing to retreat into the shadows of the carriage and its padded bench seat. He stared at nothing, his mind stalled with shock. He'd lived at the depot his whole life, perhaps once a year traveling to JoTown for supplies, and once traveling all the way to Emerson, but the depot and the Wash were all he knew, all he'd ever known.

The carriage shifted as the noblewoman, his new owner, his Mistress , climbed aboard. She prodded him with a boot, wanting him to take a seat on the bench. Daka looked at her, then turned and looked out at the man who, although his owner, had been the closest thing to a father he'd ever known. But Orr was gone, already back inside, door shut firmly behind him. Blinking, Daka moved to the bench seat and sat with a thud.

The woman sat down beside him. She picked the reins up and snapped them, and they moved away from the depot with a jolt as the ponies broke into a trot.

For an hour he said nothing, stared at nothing, as the carriage wended its way westward along the dirt road and the soft breeze pushed his hair back. His new Mistress was not without compassion, and knew what he must be feeling. She kept the reins and kept her eye on the uninteresting landscape passing by, ignoring the boy beside her. Finally, it was his background as a stablehand that brought Daka out of his reverie, got his eyes to focus. On the ponies.

This wasn't the first carriage or coach he'd ridden in, far from it. He was often called to drive a team down the road and back to get them warmed up and settled into their leathyrs. But he'd never handled a team that had been so trained to move as one, as these had, still running in step after twenty-nine miles. Daka stared at them, mesmerized.

They might as well have been machines. On and on they ran, mile after mile disappeared beneath their hoofboots, without sign of tiring. Even in the hot Wash sun it took an hour of running before they broke a sweat. They stayed in step perfectly, over uneven ground and through turns, like they were two halves of the same being. Their muscular legs were pistons, forward, back, forward, back, buttocks clenching and releasing as they ran seemingly without effort across the dusty plain. Their gait was quick, their form textbook, the clip-clop of their hooves so closely in sync Daka could shut his eyes and swear he heard only one pony.

"I see you're back among the living," his Mistress said. "Take the reins," she directed him, handing them to him. She leaned back against the bench seat.

"Just hold them slack, let them take the lead," she admonished him. "They are not second-generation garbage-wagon mounts."

"They're magnificent." Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop.

"Eleventh generation purebred stock. Their name is Lei."

"Which one?"

"Both of them. That's their name."

"Ohh . . . kay." He stared at the running figures six feet ahead of the carriage on the T-bar. Naturally slim-hipped – built to run – the corsets narrowed their waists enough to give them heart-shaped behinds. Two identical, perfect rumps, muscled cheeks clenching and releasing, clenching and releasing, as they ran ever westward. Daka had seen thousands of ponygirls in his life, had scrubbed down half of them, rubbed oil into their sore thighs, inserted and removed tailplugs from hundreds if not thousands of mounts, yet for all that, he could count on one hand the number of times he'd been aroused by a mare.

Daka hoped his robe concealed the erection that had appeared without warning, and tried not to look at the mounts in hopes his tumescence would fade. He ascribed it to his unusual situation; when limbering up a depot visitor's team he rode behind stringy, spiritless, usually mismatched mounts for ten or at most twenty minutes at a stretch. This day he'd been treated to an unrestricted view of two extraordinary specimens as they ran in perfect rhythm for hours on end, never seeming to tire, hardly sweating. He still couldn't hear their panting over the sound of the carriage on the gravel road.

Daka could feel the gaze of his new owner on him, but nervously kept his eyes on the western horizon. This road was far less familiar to him than the way to JoTown, and he dared not make an error.

"What do you remember of your life before the depot?" she asked him in her soft voice. He snuck a glance and saw she was leaning back into the corner of the cab, at ease and relaxed. The longer she stared at him with those intense eyes the more nervous he got.

"Nothing, milady," he said, talking to the reins in his hands.

"You don't remember how he came to buy you, or who your parents were?"

"No milady. The water depot is all I've ever known." There was a lump in his throat and he had to cough and look away. When he glanced at her again she was nodding.

"I am going to a meeting," she told him, abruptly changing the subject. "At an estate outside of Emerson. You are to remain with my team. They have a large stable there, and I want you to make yourself available to the Stablemaster. Do not speak unless spoken to, and follow all orders without question. I will hear of it if you misbehave, and have no doubts, punishment will be severe." The steel in her voice convinced him she wasn't bluffing, not that he'd ever suspected she was, or had planned on acting up.

"We could be there one day or three. You might see me while we're there, or you may not. It is of no concern to you. Just obey the Stablemaster and when it is time for us to go you'll be informed."

Go where? He wanted to ask, but knew it wasn't his place. When she wanted him to know she'd tell him.

"And never take your robe off in front of anyone other than ponies!" she stated sharply. "Unless I tell you, I want you to keep yourself robed around the others. If a Mistress enters the stables while you're washing a pony, I don't care if you're drenched with water, put your robe on."

"Yes milady," Daka said automatically, not understanding.

"In front of the Stablemaster is acceptable, but no others," she said firmly. "Am I clear?"

"Yes milady." He paused a few seconds. "Milady? Shouldn't you be removing my old owner's tag?"

In the deep shadow of the carriage he though he saw her smile.

"They have a metalsmith at the estate," she purred. "Don't worry, we'll get you properly hooked up."

CHAPTER FIVE—ROAD TRIP

Daka jerked awake, unsure in the darkness for a moment just where he was. He looked around, the world bouncing and swaying slightly, until the metronomic clip-clop of the ponies' hoofboots returned him to his time and place.

Near sunset, after close to four hours, his Mistress had stopped the team for a water break. She'd slowed them to a walk first, let them walk along for ten minutes to avoid cramping up, then given Daka a water bag. The ponygirls had drunk thirstily until the bag was empty and wanted more. Daka gave them each a handful of PonyMix, let them eat it out of his palm, but they were less than halfway to Emerson and the remaining water bag was all that was left. Giving them more to eat would mean they'd need more water to digest the food. They could do without the food, but if the water ran out . . . .

After the break they ran for another hour and a half in the gathering darkness. As the land grew hilly the mounts' exhaustion became evident. For the first time their gait became uneven, and Daka could hear their harsh panting over the crunch of gravel under the carriage wheels.

Daka was holding the reins at the time, and his Mistress had commanded him to slow the ponies to a walk, then stop them a few minutes later. They quivered under the bright starlight as the sweat dried on their skin, and their thighs trembled with fatigue.

"How far to go yet?" his Mistress asked. They had just started into the hills.

"Seventeen, maybe eighteen miles," he replied. When fresh the ponies could do better than seven miles and hour across even ground, but up and down hills, nearly exhausted? Five miles an hour, he guessed.

She directed him to feed and water the ponies again. They all but ignored the PonyMix and sucked down nearly all of the water. Daka kept them hooked to the carriage as they took a half hour rest. He was afraid their feet would swell up if he as much as loosened their boots.

While he and his Mistress walked around the carriage to stretch their legs the ponies knelt on the ground to rest. Daka had chocked the carriage wheels so it couldn't roll forward or back, and the ponies almost immediately fell asleep leaning forward, held upright by the T-bar still attached to their corsets in the middle of their backs.

The barren desert had gradually turned to a rocky scrubland, with low hills made of jutting layers of shale and slate and small, twisted thorny trees whose leaves were as dried birds tongues. There was just a sliver of moon showing but the starlight was more than adequate to see the empty hills stretching away from them in all directions.

When it was time to move out his Mistress produced a small wooden box from inside the carriage and handed it to Daka.

"Give one to each mount," she instructed him. Inside the small box were a dozen off-white orbs the size of large olives and a small, unmarked vial.

"Stimulants," she explained.

Daka had never heard of such a thing, but he moved to the first mount that was still sleeping and began unhooking her bit. She never stirred.

"No, you dunce," his Mistress hissed. "Not there . Use the tube of plug grease. Haven't you ever seen a suppository before?"

Daka stood there for several seconds before comprehension occurred. He'd never heard the word suppository before but he surely knew what plug grease was. He rehooked the bit on the still sleeping mount and moved behind her. The little orbs were slightly greasy to the touch already, but he did as he was told and covered it liberally with tailplug lube. The first mount's buttocks were resting on her boots as she slept in-harness. Daka reached below her, between the boots, and deftly inserted the little capsule. He pushed it in as far as it would go with his finger as the mount sluggishly awoke, then did the same with the other mare. They slowly climbed to their feet, still half asleep, and high-stepped a few times to stretch their stiff legs. Daka and his Mistress climbed back into the carriage, and after taking the reins Daka clucked at the mounts.

He walked them for the first ten minutes, until they were warmed up and had the kinks in their muscles worked out. Daka noticed they were becoming increasingly agitated, and when he finally flicked the reins for them to break into a trot they took off so quickly his head was jerked back.

"They should be good for another three or four hours," Daka heard. "But then they're going to be useless."

Now, as he blinked his sleep-filled eyes, Daka saw the mounts were still running strong. Upright and wide-eyed, they were back in step and making good time. He estimated they'd make Emerson an hour or so before sunrise.

The mounts' hard buttocks were pale orbs in the bright starlight as they ran evenly up and down the gentle hills. The night air wasn't quite cool, but with the drop in temperature the Wash became almost pleasant. The ponies were barely sweating, which was good considering their water situation.

His Mistress held the reins loosely in her hands, but when Daka glanced at her he was surprised to find she was asleep. How long she'd been out he didn't know, but it just proved how disciplined her mounts were.

Daka stretched, enjoying the cool night air against his face. He heard a rustling beside him and found his Mistress waking up. She ran a hand through her jet-black hair and sat up straighter.

"Unforgivable," she murmured. "I must've been more tired than I thought. How long have I been asleep?"

Daka peered at the constellations in the sky, found the polar star and saw how high it was off the horizon.

"I'm not sure milady, but it's been about an hour since we last stopped." His forehead crinkled and he leaned over to look around the edge of the carriage canopy. The road behind them was a paler stripe winding through the scrubland, disappearing around a small rise.

"What is it?" his Mistress asked.

"Someone's coming up behind us," he told her.

She stood up like a shot and looked backward over the top of the carriage. Her eyes worked well in the dark, and she studied the road behind them.

"I see nothing," she called down to him over the sound of the wheels on the road.

"No milady, nor do I. But someone's back there."

She looked down at him, hearing the confidence in his voice. "How do you know?"

Daka shrugged. "I just do."

She stared at him for a second, not moving, then tossed him the reins.

"Take these," she ordered him, ducking under the carriage roof. She reached under the seat and came out with a long object that glinted silver in the starlight. As she stood back up and looked again to their rear, pointing the object down the road, Daka felt an overwhelming sense of fear and dread. He looked around the side of the carriage again just in time to see . . . something round the curve behind them and come screaming up the road. He could hear the screaming in his head, like rusty metal grinding together

"Hiichaa!" his Mistress shouted, and a ball of white flame the size of Daka's fist flew from the end of the rod clutched in her hands. It shot at the shape hurtling up the road towards them at nearly three times the carriage's speed.

The ball of white flame expanded as it flew at their pursuer, growing as big as a melon, then a barrel, lightning sparking through it. When it met the shape chasing them it was the height of a door, a ball of white twisting fire that enveloped the dark shape now only fifty yards behind the carriage.

The shrieking in his head exploded with rage and pain. Inside the globe of flashing light Daka saw what looked like a black tumbleweed as tall as a man. Black hissing twisted limbs, like gnarled tree branches but whipping about like mad rattlers. He saw all this perfectly for a brief fraction of a second, then the hissing mass of intertwined snakebranches began to smoke and shrink inside the ball of white fire. The screaming in Daka's head reached a crescendo as the . . . thing still tried to catch them, smoking and withering, then it burst into green and blue flame and the screaming stopped. After a second the flames winked out, as did the ball of white light. His Mistress stared at the black mass in the road now barely the size of a curled up dog, watching for any signs of life, but as they rolled further and further from it without it doing anything but smoking she relaxed and sat back down inside the carriage.

After stowing the lightning rod beneath the seat she took the reins back from Daka and made soothing noises to calm the panicked mounts. They were in a near flat-out run, and it took her a few minutes to get them to slow to a normal gait.

"What was that?" Daka panted, his heart still racing. He had the sense that they'd just escaped death. Or perhaps something worse. In all his years in the Wash he'd never seen anything like that creature. His Mistress glanced at him briefly, then looked back to the mares. "And what was that you—"

"Don't ever touch it," she warned him, and he pulled his hand back that had been reaching for the lightning stick. "Never. I'll cut off your hands. Is that understood?"

"Yes milady."

"Warn me when we are nearing Emerson. But shut your mouth until then, no more questions. I have to think."

If Daka had been a little more observant he would have noticed how badly his Mistress was shaken, and how pale her face was.

CHAPTER SIX—MOM'S

The stagecoach clattered down the middle of the dusty street, sending stray dogs scurrying out of the way. The team of eight ran directly into the setting sun, grateful for the cooler temperatures but unable to see much of anything as the sun was directly at eye level. The two lead ponies squinted and did the best they could, trusting the stagecoach driver, while the other six just closed their eyes and ran blind.

Inside the coach the passengers were gathering their belongings and stretching their cramped limbs. Two-Bore Mining's skinny accountant opened a window to get some fresh air, but closed it quickly as the coach filled with swirling dust. The two scruffy pipe-wranglers inside the coach with him, thick arms mottled with camp tattoos, glared at him evilly and waved at the dust.

Up top, the driver clicked at his team and tugged on the reins. They slowed to a walk as Mom's Saloon came into view.

The figure sitting beside the driver on the bench looked around curiously. The sidewalks to either side of the street were busy with people, and a lot of new buildings had been thrown up in the eight months since she'd last passed through JoTown. Most of the pedestrians were miners by their clothes, or metal wranglers of one sort or another hired by Two-Bore. The rest were drawn in by what the miners promised – money and men, and lots of both.

"Must've tapped a major vein," the driver said to himself, unwrapping the dust-caked scarf from around his face. "Looks like a whole different town."

The driver whoa, whoa'd the team to a stop in front of Mom's and waved a hand in front of his face as the trailing dust cloud enveloped the stagecoach and then passed it by.

"I think you're crazy for wanting to sit up here instead of back inside the coach," he said with a cough to the figure sitting on the bench beside him. The driver knew his companion was a woman, but only from her voice. She'd told him she wanted to sit up top when they were leaving Burnsville the day before. He'd told her no, saying it was against his policy (he was owner/operator of the coach and team). They'd gone back and forth for a while until settling on a price – more, in fact, than the driver thought he'd get.

She was close to his height and dressed head to toe in a tan flowing robe. Beneath the hood she'd wrapped a loose swatch of cloth around her head, covering everything but her eyes. Those were shielded by deeply tinted sungoggles. Of her body he could tell nothing, which was why he'd asked for money instead of bartering for sex. She could be covered in sores or have dropfinger disease and he wouldn't know.

"Better the open air than in there with them ," he heard the woman say, and she jerked her head backward, at the cabin. Her expression was hidden by the folds of dusty cloth.

She looked behind the coach, then down the street in front of them. "At least up here you can see what's coming," she said, her voice only slightly muffled by the cloth. She grabbed her canvas satchel in one black-gloved hand and climbed down as the other passengers began exiting the coach, grumbling, stifflegged, and sore.

The driver started tossing down the men's luggage, a few scuffed bags made of canvas and leathyr. "Where do you go from here?" the cloaked woman called up to him, patting the dust from the folds of her robe.

"North. Gravestown, Ironheart, and then finally to Greenwood. Then I start back."

She nodded curtly and turned to go, but was brought up short by the sight of the team. The double row of ponygirls was sweaty and looked exhausted after what the unseen woman considered an easy two day journey. They'd walked most of the way, and been given far too many water breaks for their own good.

The two leads were blackskinned and had powerful hindquarters, at least compared to the scrawny specimens usually seen in the Wash. If they were purebred, which was unlikely this far into the west, it was from perhaps fourth-generation stock, but the remaining six couldn't be from better than second, maybe third generation mixed stock at best. The lead two had been baked coal black by the harsh sun, while the others were a deep mahogany brown. Stringy and tired-looking, they were obviously a working team. No decorative tailplugs, no showy nipple rings. Brands on their left buttocks instead of tattoos. Their leathyrs were cracked and stained from heavy use but still serviceable, although most of their hoofboots could've used new soles.

She'd learned en route that the driver was the team's owner/operator, before he realized she had no interest in small talk. He'd told her he shaved the team's heads because he got tired of brushing eight manes every night. Between the bald heads and the distinct lack of breasts on seven out of the eight sinewy ponies, he said he didn't have much problem with passengers trying to mount his mares.

The eighth mount, the one with breasts, was third back on the right. Even with near zero body fat her breasts were respectably sized, large B's or small C's. With a normal bodyfat percentage the cloaked woman guessed they'd be immense.

He body language was hard to read under the flowing robe, but the driver kept an eye on the woman as she stared at his team and she seemed . . . disgusted by them. There was something about the tilt of her head, the set of her shoulders, that said she had little or no respect for the ponies, or worse.

Without another word she turned on her heel and strode through the double doors of Mom's. The place was filling rapidly as the sun went down and the work day ended. It was always night in the mine, but there wasn't so much work that they needed to run more than two shifts. Miners, some still in their dusty work clothes, bellied up to the bar for hard liquor and whatever tobacco products might be available that week. The physical demands of the profession were just too much for most women. At a time when men were outnumbered over ten to one by women throughout the realm, mining towns offered the opposite, and were in fact gold mines for women of certain type. The prostitutes were nearly two deep around the periphery of the room.

The newest arrival headed toward the bar, brushing aside the advances of a barebreasted whore who mistook her for a man. She unwound the scarf from around her face as she leaned against the bar rail, and pulled off the goggles. A small pert nose was revealed, above two full pouty lips and bright white teeth. Her eyes were deep dark blue, but only in sunlight. Everywhere else they looked black.

Mom floated over to the new face at the bar and grabbed a glass with one of her tentacles. "What'll it be?"

The woman pulled down the hood of her robe and blew at the dust cloud that appeared. "You got any rooms available, Mom?"

"S'Leah! As I live and breathe." She set the glass down. This one never drank. "Been a while since we've seen your face around here."
"Eight months," S'Leah said.

Mom was nodding. "Two new veins opened up," she told her guest. "Looks like they're going to be huge. I hardly recognize the town, what with all the new faces."

"It won't last."

Mom gave her a scowl and quickly glanced around. No one had heard the comment. She floated behind the bar on her titanium chassis and pasted the smile back onto her wide face. Born without any limbs, due no doubt to her mother spending the first month of her pregnancy walking the Poisoned Lands, her father any one of the six males in the small nomadic band, Mom had been sold at six months of age to a third-rate traveling circus. She was eight when the circus went broke and found herself the property of a wealthy society matron in New Dispore. She spent the next few years as a wall hanging, a decorative flesh sculpture moved from room to room per the whims of her owner. The house servants, tasked with feeding, watering, and cleaning the twisted wall hangings and statua their mistress liked to collect, took their pleasure with those who could not or dared not protest. After a while the matron tired of her and sold her to a nearby House of Pleasure, where those in search of the unusual paid high prices to be alone with her. The women, surprisingly, were both the most tender and the cruelest. The men just spent a few minutes pawing at her limbless torso and then filled one of her orifices with seed.

She was sold from one house to the next for twenty or so years, until with the help of a man in love with her she bought her freedom. He died soon after, some say from poison, although no one suspected Mom. Ten years later she had her own House in JoTown, as well as a good-as-new floating chassis with six independent coil arms hardwired in.

Mom's blonde hair was streaked with grey, and she'd thickened up over the years, but she still could turn heads if she wanted to. Tonight she had her large breasts packed into a push-up bra beneath a low-cut white blouse that hung past the bottom of her chassis.

Occasionally, if the mood took her, she'd head into one of the rooms with a man or three, but most of the time when she was propositioned she'd just wave her six metal tentacles in the air and say "Honey, why would I settle for one when I can have six at once any day of the week?"

"You got here just in time," Mom said. "Only two rooms left. Standard or deluxe?"

"Standard.'

Mom nodded. "What I figured. You stand to make a bundle tonight. With all the traffic the girls are chargin' double what they were last time you were in town," she said in her slow drawl. She canted her head and smiled at S'Leah. "Just so's you know. Rules are still the same, don't make me kick you out."

S'Leah nodded, paid for the room, and headed upstairs with her bag. Several of the girls leaning against the rail on the second floor and called out.

"Leah! Back to help us shear the sheep?"

"Hi Leah!"

"Well, look at her. Looks like there's too many men in town tonight for even you to take care of." The snotty voice belonged to a skinny brunette dressed in black leathyr pants and a black leathyr bustier. S'Leah didn't even remember her name much less acknowledge the comment.

Most of the girls lining the barroom wore leathyr or rubber, sometimes both. They were the cheapest and most durable kind of apparel available this close to the desert, not that the miners were that interested in fashion anyway.

In the second floor hallway outside the door to her room a woman was on her knees fellating a scruffy miner. She hardly seemed to know which end of his organ to lick, and flinched as he cursed her for scraping him with her teeth. S'Leah smiled inwardly and went into her room to change, locking the door behind her.

CHAPTER SEVEN—WORKING GIRL

With the sun down and the last stragglers out of the mines, Mom's began to fill up rapidly. There were two other establishments in town, but neither of them had the history, quality of liquor, or excess of whores that Mom's did. Nine of ten men working in the mines, young or old, married or not, spent money at Mom's before their tour was over.

The main bar room was elbow to elbow, a mix of tobacco smoke, the smell of spilled homemade beer and whisky, body odor, dust, with the occasional whiff of soap from the odd miner that washed up before coming in.

The women didn't spend too much time in the bar room itself. Not only was the music so loud they had to shout to be heard, the floor was so crowded they couldn't take two steps without being groped. Which wasn't bad, in and of itself, but Mom's Number One Rule was no wetwork in the bar room. So the women generally roamed the tables in the east half of the building, looking for customers which they then took outside, upstairs, or into a nearby hallway, depending on which service was requested and how hurried he was.

When S'Leah appeared, slowly descending the stairs, dozens of heads turned her way and wolf whistles echoed around the room. Upstairs she'd washed and hurriedly dressed for work, not wanting to miss the rush, knowing word of her presence was circulating.

Her straight black hair was cut short as a man's and parted down the center. Her full pouty lips were painted a glossy crimson, and her short fingernails shone with clear polish. She wore a jet black rubber miniskirt dress with spaghetti straps that barely came down below the cheeks of her ass. Not the industrial-grade rubber most of the other girls wore, a quarter-inch thick or nearly so, no, her dress was so thin it clung to her every curve. Every light in the place reflected off its glossy surface. Under it she wore nothing but a g-string, so the dress' lines would stay clean.

S'Leah's breasts were high and firm, larger than most and sporting perpetually erect nipples. The dress was scoop-necked, cut low enough to show her abundant cleavage.

On her feet she wore black leathyr toe boots that put her eye to eye with almost every man in the room. They laced up tight over her ankles and resembled nothing so much as ballet slippers with six inch spike heels. S'Leah walked as if she'd been born wearing them, on the ends of her toes, the heels taking about a quarter of her weight.

Between the dress and the boots were her legs, light enough in this deeply tanned realm to stick out. Her thighs were extraordinarily well-muscled, nearly to the point of being out of proportion to the rest of her body. The extreme angle of the toe boots made her big calves ball up like fists.

S'Leah strutted between the tables toward the crowded floor, knowing the other women were staring daggers at her. She had rather slender hips, but when she started swaying them back and forth conversations stopped.

She stopped at the edge of the crush of miners, stood with her feet apart and her hands on her hips, as the miners who knew her or knew of her explained in not-so-quiet whispers just what the big deal was to their buddies.

The tip of her tongue appeared, ran over her lips. "Who's first?" she called out casually.

Money exploded out of pockets and wallets as twenty men scrambled to find her price. A wiry pipeworker in beat-up chaps and denims had the cash in hand and stepped forward. With a sly smile S'Leah took the wad of bills, then turned and sashayed toward a side door. The man's eyes were glued to her swinging ass as he followed her out the door and into a black hallway. The corridor smelled of sex, sweat, semen and leathyr, and was dimly lit compared to the bright bar-room. A miner had one of the girls bent over at the far end of the hall, doing her doggy style, and their grunts echoed off the stained walls.

The wad of bills surreptitiously tucked into the front of her g-string, S'Leah pushed the wiry, ponytailed worker up against the wall. She kept her eyes on his as she sank to her knees before him and began undoing his belt buckle.

"Two rules," she told him with a purr, as his zipper went down. "No talking, and don't touch my head. Ever ."

"Yeah, okay," he said breathlessly, nodding.

His organ was stiff as a tree branch and respectable in size. It sprung forward from his trousers with eagerness, as did the strong musk of his unwashed body. S'Leah blinked to keep her eyes from tearing up, and licked her lips. She stared the man in the eyes as she bent her head to his cock and licked at the head. Her ass stuck out provocatively, knees wide apart for balance.

She ran her tongue over and around it, coating it with saliva. He groaned and leaned back against the wall. She licked down and back up one side of the shaft, then the other, until it gleamed with spit. Then her mouth sank down on him and the man gasped as her soft wet tongue went wild, thrashing against and around his member like a rabid animal in a cage.

S'Leah reached up and cupped his buttocks in her palms. She sucked and swirled, sucked and swirled, bobbing her head frantically. The man was panting now, watching as with each bob of her head she took more of his tool into her mouth. With no warning, and seemingly without effort, she buried her nose in his crotch. He groaned as her throat pulsated around his member, buried to the hilt in her eager orifice. She bobbed and swirled, licked and sucked hard, bouncing her face off his body like the seven-and –a-half-inch cock was only half that long. As she slid her face into his pants, nose pressed hard against his hairy mound, he felt her tongue snake out and lick at his balls.

"Gaah!" he said explosively, trying hard not to come so soon. He bent over and shoved both his hands down the front of her dress. Her breasts were warm and firm as rubber, her hard nipples like pebbles against his palms. He pulled the creamy orbs out of the top of her dress and squeezed hard.

With him bent over, S'Leah couldn't get as good of an angle on his shaft, what with his ribcage pushing against the top of her head. Without pause she turned her head sideways and began jackhammering his cock into her crimson-lipped mouth, gripping his asscheeks roughly through the denim. Her tongue was a flailing serpent, everywhere at once, her throat clutching at him. That was all it took.

"Oh God!" he gasped, tensing.

S'Leah pulled him hard against her face, her fingers digging hard into his buttocks as the man climaxed. He thrust against her head as the seed spurted out of him and she rode him tight, keeping him in an iron grip. She could feel the spurts coursing down the length of his organ before they shot deep into her throat, past the base of her tongue. She sucked hard, milking every last drop from him, as he slowly released his hold on her breasts, panting hard.

When she was sure she had it all S'Leah let go of his ass and slid her mouth off his pink, still hard flesh. He'd lasted all of three minutes under her expert attentions, about average. While he zipped himself back into his jeans she stood up and dusted off her knees, then tucked her breasts back inside the rubber dress.

The miner smiled and nodded at her, a little embarrassed that he'd popped off so quick. Her hard nipples, though, each the size of the end of his pinkie, assured him that he'd made her hot, and with a wink at S'Leah he headed back to the bar for another drink.

Her nipples weren't hard from excitement. When she'd cut off the rings the holes hadn't healed over but rather scarred up.. Her hard nipples were more knotty scar tissue than anything else. The tight dress hurt them, but then so did just about everything else. They ached in cold weather, in rain, and whenever she wore clothes that were anything less than billowing.

The rings were the most prominent sign of her former life as a ponygirl, and she'd wasted no time removing them. Her nipples had been pierced when she was two, living in the Royal Stables. S'Leah, born to the bit, purebred with a vaunted lineage dating back to the first generation ponies. She'd had another name then.

As soon as she was walking, the trainers had her running around the courses, pulling small weighted barrows. There were hundreds of mature ponies in the Royal Stables but only a handful her age. S'Leah never got along with them, maybe because she was different, maybe because they knew she was different.

When she showed promise as a sprinter the trainers began grooming her to be a racing mount. Quarter-milers, half-mile dashes were her forte. The hormone-enriched PonyMix along with the endless hours of running each day helped her reach her potential and shaped her body to its task. As big as her thighs were today they seemed malnourished compared to the bulk she'd sported in her racing prime.

Even as S'Leah earned praise by winning Junior-League races she'd become more and more unmanageable. Where most of her sisters slept in groups she kept to herself, which only succeeded in drawing their scorn and distrust. As the girls reached maturity the verbal war turned physical, and the situation deteriorated until S'Leah had to be locked alone in a stall at night. The trainers were well aware there was a problem but nothing they did seemed to temper S'Leah's anger. Isolation, whippings, an increased training regimen, it all just seemed to inflame her more.

When she was sixteen the trainers entered the stable one morning to find S'Leah had broken loose and kicked one of her stablemates halfway to death with her hoofboots. It was the last straw. Even though she was purebred of the finest stock, hormone-enhanced, and lifetime trained, she was just too unbalanced to keep.

The mount S'Leah'd kicked would be permanently crippled, never to walk without a limp again. If she'd been fertile she could have been relegated to breeding duty until she grew too old to conceive, but she soon proved barren. As she was not unattractive she was instead sent to an inseminarium where they were always in need of females with superb physical endurance.

S'Leah was sold to a city taxi service, where she pulled citizens through the streets for two years, until the company owner got tired of her trying to bite and kick her stablemates and drivers. She was sold to another cab company, where she lasted even less time, and finally ended up sold to a trash company, part of a team of ten that pulled a refuse wagon to and from the city dump.

The trash wagon driver was quick with his whip during the day and his cock in the evening. S'Leah was a fighter, which made her all the more desirable in his eyes. He got into the habit of putting her on the tie bar every night and chaining her boots to the floor, so he could penetrate her at his leisure without having to worry about being kicked to death. It made her act up even more when hitched to the wagon, and the only way he could control her was the whip.

It was on one of her bad days that her benefactor found S'Leah. She was in position nine on the team, rear left, and refusing to pull. The driver was on the wagon, cursing up a storm and whipping her ass into a crosshatch of stripes, when the obviously wealthy woman strolled up in the hooded silk robe.

She took one long look into S'Leah's hate filled eyes and offered to buy her right then. The driver was too surprised to argue, especially at the sum she offered, and immediately unhitched S'Leah from the wagon and drove off.

The woman unhooked S'Leah's bit, removed the stained harness from her head, and looked her in the eyes.

"I give you your freedom," she said. "My man will remove your brands. Then it is up to you. Walk away, out of my sight, if you choose." She unhooked the armsleeve from S'Leah's corset and began unlacing it. After a minute she was able to pull it free, and S'Leah's arms fell to her sides, tingling. It had been three years since her arms had been unbound, and they felt alien to her.

"Or," the woman said, her voice dropping, "I can teach you, educate you, show you how to make those who have done this to you suffer." The woman looked her in the eye. "You'll never be a slave again," She said, "but what you do with the rest of your life is up to you."

There really had been no choice to make. The woman was true to her word, widening S"Leah's eyes to the world around her. She was taught how to read, write, and many other useful, less esoteric skills. S'Leah learned just how unique she was, how special, was told that was why she'd never gotten along with others.

The two years spent learning under her benefactor were the happiest time of her life, but S'Leah knew when it was time to leave. She'd been out on her own for eight years doing her benefactor's bidding, confident she was helping to make the world a better place, bring it clower to the way it used to be, the way it should be.

Out of harness and eating real food, her breasts had tripled in size and her thighs had lost half their bulk. She knew she could still outrun any man in the realm, not that she'd ever run from any fight. She'd been out of harness long enough that few people if any suspected that she'd ever been a pony. Old, retired ponies were common; young free ones were rare, almost unheard of. Her nipple rings were ancient history, although the painful scar tissue forced her to remember them everyday.

Her engineered genes were a blessing in some ways. Bound behind her nearly constantly for twenty years, common sense said her arms should have atrophied. They hadn't, and in fact had filled out with muscle in a few short months.

Royal mounts, whether they raced or hauled nobility back and forth to the palace, were expected to look good. S'Leah had been fitted for her first tailplug not long after her training first begun, and she'd grown up wearing one. No royal pony ever appeared in public without its tailplug, and even the taxi companies she'd hauled for had plugged their mounts. After fifteen straight years of running while wearing a decorative tailplug, her anus was a bulging circular knot of calloused burgundy flesh, unsightly and nearly numb. That, more than anything else, marked her as a former highbred mount. The tattoo on her neck signifying her status as property of the Royal Stables had been removed by palace stablehands when they sold her. The two overlapping brands on her left buttock from the taxi services had been removed by one of her benefactor's people, leaving not even a ripple.

S'Leah ran her tongue along her lips to moisten the crimson paint, which would last most of the evening without needing a retouch, smoothed a wrinkle on her dress, and strode through the doorway to find her next customer. The short line of men that had formed, waiting for her, wasn't that much of a surprise. She pursed her lips sexily and curled her finger at the first in line, sweatily clutching a wad of bills in nervous hands.

S'Leah eyed those quivering hands as she led him around the corner and sank to her knees. Two minutes, tops, if she had to wager. Easy money, as long as he wasn't the One.

"Here's the rules, Sugar," she said.

CHAPTER EIGHT-WORKING GIRL

"Here's your cut so far," S'Leah told Mom, handing over a thick roll of bills. Mom got a twenty-five percent cut of all business done on the premises, and most of the girls knew enough not to cross her.

Mom hefted the roll and raised an eyebrow at its size. "I noticed you've had a line most of the evening," Mom said, stowing the roll underneath the hanging edge of her blouse somewhere, S'Leah didn't want to know where. "But I didn't think it was that long."

"Quick turnaround," S'Leah said distractedly, scanning the crowd for new customers. It was near midnight, which meant she had another three or four hours before Mom threw the stragglers out. Tomorrow she'd have a stiff neck, and diarrhea from all the seed she'd swallowed, but the longer than expected number of miners meant she'd have enough money to last her another month at least, maybe two.

"Honey," a working girl leaning against the bar said to S'Leah, "doesn't the taste get to you?"

S'Leah eyed the chesty brunette, dressed in a wide-brimmed wrangler hat, brown leather chaps and boots, and sporting a forest of steel rings. They pierced her nose, ears, lower lip, nipples, and labia.

"There aren't any taste buds in your throat,' S'Leah pointed out curtly.

The brunette shook her head. "I can't do that without gagging," she said.

And that's exactly why you'll never be anything but a third rate whore who has to mutilate herself to attract men , S'Leah thought. A childhood spent as a pony under the tutelage of the royal trainers had taught her she could do anything she put her mind to. Controlling her gag reflex was nothing compared to the mental concentration, focus, and conditioning needed to run consistent three-minute-miles while pulling a carriage. Once her rubber tailplug had cracked early in a race, and sliced her up so bad she'd crossed the finish line with blood running down the backs of her thighs. S'Leah hadn't noticed until one of the Princesses in the stands started screaming.

S'Leah moved away from the bar, thinking of making a detour to her room. Her g-string was packed with bills and getting uncomfortable.

"So are you the split with the hole in the back of her head?"

S'Leah turned and saw the speaker was a burly miner dressed in cracked leathyrs, smelling of whisky and sporting five days growth of beard.

"You looking for some head?" S'Leah asked, not responding to his insulting tone.

"Yeah, you'd look a lot prettier with my cock in your mouth," looking around for laughs that never came. He pretended not to notice. "Let's go up to your room," he told her.

He was a little too obnoxious for her taste, but she'd been heading up to her room anyway, and money was money.

"Come on," she said, starting up the stairs.

"Wow, what an ass. I wouldn't mind parking myself in that for a couple hours."

"I only do oral," S'Leah told him, pulling his hand off her right hip. "Don't get to play until you pay."

"Okay, okay," he said, trying hard to smile.

Throw and Catch were working a customer in the second floor hallway. The two girls always worked as a team, one standing behind the man, giving him a reach-around, stroking, while the second knelt in front of him making sexy faces and licking her hips. Throw's hand was a blur and the man was grunting, his pants pushed down to expose most of his hairy buttocks. Their turnaround time was second only to S'Leah's, although she didn't have any cleanup to do—Catch used her whole face. For a little extra money Throw would lick her clean, and for a little more she'd spit it back into Catch's mouth.

S'Leah unlocked the door and stepped inside to let the man enter. The room was the standard ten by twelve, with a narrow bed along one wall, opposite the toilet and an old claw-footed tub in a tiled alcove. The walls were wood and plaster and hadn't been painted in years. She shut the door but made sure not to lock it.

"Shouldn't you be on your knees?" he said, grabbing his crotch.

"Money first," she told him.

"Aw, that'll spoil the mood," he complained.

"No pay, no play." He tone and the look in her eyes told him there was no room for argument. He pulled a sheaf of bills from his pocket, counted off her fee, then crumpled up the bills and tossed them at her.

S'Leah caught them easily, to his surprise, and put the money on the bed next to her bag.

"How much for that pussy?" he said as she got down on her knees.

"I only do oral," she told him for the second time.

"I bet it's nice and tight," he went on like he hadn't heard her. "Tastes nice and sweet, too."

Still on her knees, S'Leah put her fists on her hips. "Are we going to do this?" she asked harshly.

"Yeah, yeah," he said, unzipping and moving forward. "Gonna have a hard time choking down this monster," he bragged, fishing out his cock. It was big, even half hard, but she'd seen plenty bigger.

"Two rules," she said as she brought his organ close. "Don't touch my head, and don't talk." She bent her head down and wrapped her lips around the head of his cock.

"I'm paying here," the miner said indignantly. "I'll grab your head if I goddamn want to." To prove it he reached down to snag a fistful of her hair.

S'Leah jerked her head back before his grimy fingers could get a grip.

"Hey, listen, fucker, I'm not going to put up with any—"

The roundhouse slap rocked her head back, left a red imprint on her cheek and brought tears to her eyes.

"Shut up, you fucking cunt, you whore," he said savagely, grabbing her by the hair. He yanked her head back. He was hard now, and shoved his length into her open mouth.

"You got a real man here," he shouted, bucking against her face. "You're gonna eat it, and then I'm gonna see about that sweet pussy." His grip was like iron, his fingers woven into her hair. "You like that? You like it, you bitch? Take that big cock."

His grip was too strong for her to pull away. As he violently thrusted into her mouth, balls slapping against her chin, S'Leah shifter her weight, leaning forward. She reached up and grabbed his ass with both hands and pushed her face forward.

"Oh, that's it. Yeah. You know you want it. It's a monster." He felt her tongue begin to move against his shaft, and reveled in the feel of his entire cock down her throat. No one had ever been able to take all of him before, and it felt as good as he'd thought it would.

"You suck it good, slut," he said, letting go of her hair to grab the back of her head and pull it hard against him. "Take it all."

S'Leah bit down hard, jerked her head side to side, bit down hard again. He stiffened, his hands flying out, and a piercing squeal flew from his lips. S'Leah threw herself backwards to the bed, hand darting into her bag.

He took a step toward her, the squeal now turning into a scream. S'Leah was on her feet in a flash and turned toward him, the tanto flashing in her fist. She slapped his hands away and buried the razor-sharp blade in his throat. His hands flew up to the wound even as she began sawing the blade back and forth and arterial spray arced through the air. His scream stopped abruptly.

S'Leah grabbed him by the hair with her free hand and dragged him backward as she continued to hack at his neck. She kick-swept his legs and he went down sideways, landing half in and half out of the bathtub. He twitched and flopped like a landed fish as she kept cutting, holding him down with a knee. Blood filled the white tub, splashing against its sides, gurgling down the drain. Finally the body was still and S'Leah pulled the knife back. His head flopped loosely, attached by a single piece of gristle. His eyes were wide open, staring blindly at the tub's white enamel. Blood poured out of his neck like a faucet, dark red in the dim fluorescent light.

S'Leah bent down and with a grunt hoisted the rest of his body into the tub. The miner's boots hung over the edge, oddly small for such a big man. S'Leah strode quickly to the door and locked it, then listened at the crack. No shouts, no running feet.

The wooden floor had a fair share of blood on it but would be easy to clean up. She turned the water on in the tub, running it lukewarm. It took her just a minute to go through his pockets. All he had of value was a tiny nugget of gold and a small wad of bills. She put them on the dresser, then opened the small window above the toilet and looked out into the alley. It ran behind Mom's, behind all the businesses on this side of the street. She could see—and smell—the trash cans as well as the piles of broken furniture and lumber. The alley was blessedly free of people. The only things she saw moving were two of the towns numerous mongrel dogs. Perfect.

Working quickly and efficiently S'Leah stripped the body, washing the blood off the leathyrs. She tossed them into a corner, then began rapidly cutting up the body with her long knife, sticking to the joints whenever she could. When he was reduced to manageable pieces, washed clean of blood, she began dropping them out of the window into the dumpster. The dumpster was ten feet to the side, so she had to aim the big chunks. All but two of the pieces made it into the metal bin, but the dogs immediately grabbed them and began biting off big chunks of flesh. In just a few minutes there was nothing left but short pieces of bone, which the dogs trotted off with.

All the room had was one small grey towel. S'Leah had to rinse it out about ten times before the floor was clean of blood. She cleaned off the knife and put it away, then used a small wall mirror to help clean herself up. The blood on her cheeks and chin was nearly dry, and she had more trouble scrubbing that off than she had cleaning the drops off her rubber dress.

She was standing in the center of the small room, looking around for tiny spots of blood she might have missed, when there was a knock at the door. She froze for a second, heart racing, then quietly stepped to the door and hit the SecureVu button. The palm-sized, door mounted vidscreen displayed the hallway outside the door and the young man nervously standing there.

"Just a minute," she called out. She pulled the wad of cash from her g-string and stuffed it into her bag, then darted over and kicked the miner's leathyrs under the tub. She checked for any bloodstains in the tub, then stopped and put a hand on her stomach. She worked her stomach muscles, rolling them upward like waves. She hunched over and opened her mouth. With a wet gagging her throat pulsed and a jagged piece of red meat appeared. S'Leah grabbed it with two fingers and pulled the miner's organ the rest of the way out, then tossed it through the open window. She wiped her lips, then unlocked the door and opened it.

"Hello, Ricky," she said with a smile.

The young man ducked inside with a shy smile and a quick glance at S'Leah.

"They said you were back in town," he said. He was in his twenties, rawboned with a deep tan and poorly cut hair.

"They were right," S'Leah said, locking the door. "Do you have it?"

Ricky held out some folded bills. S'Leah tossed them onto the bed behind him. "Not that, Ricky," she pretended to scold him.

From a pocket he produced a square vac-sealed wrapper. S'Leah ripped the top off and pulled the black rubber LuvGluv out while Ricky watched intently, sweat appearing on his forehead.

"Get on your knees, boy," she told him, as she reached underneath her dress to tug the g-string over her hips. It fell to the floor and she kicked it away, then stood with her legs apart. Ricky was before her, quivering with anticipation.

"You miss me, boy?" she asked, pulling her dress up over her hips. "The other girls don't have what you want?"

The palace pony breeders experimented with a new series of in-utero hormone treatments for the first wave of her generation ponies, in addition to the standard gene manipulation. Although the girls did develop previously unheard-of speed and endurance, the testosterone-rich hormone mixture had an unexpected result.

S'Leah had a vagina, but it was little more than a slit forward of her bulging anus that would rarely accommodate more than a finger. Her testicles usually hid it from view, unless she was bent over. Her penis was as big as the one she'd just thrown out the window and exceptionally veiny. S'Leah was convinced the cock ring she'd been forced to wear while performing at special events and during holiday celebrations was the cause of the bulging veins. The head of her cock had been vertically ringed just like her nipples, locked down when she was racing to the horizontal ring piercing the underside of her soft scrotum. She'd had both those rings removed as well, but those holes had healed over without scarring.

S'Leah pulled the black rubber sheath over her unfurling member. She tugged it down her shaft, then pulled the pouch down to enclose her balls. A rubber cord encircled the base of the LuvGluv, with a trailing end, and S'Leah pulled it to tighten the rubber sheath around her cock and balls, just like a cock ring. Her organ swelled as the blood was trapped within, the big veins visible even through the thick rubber. The LuvGluv was no condom, paper thin for increased sensitivity. It was built thick, for hours of hard use.

"Remember, don't touch," she said. She ran both her hands through Ricky's hair, then grabbed fistfuls of his brown locks. He opened his mouth and she rammed her rubber-sheathed organ down his throat, making him gag.

"Take it you little pussy!" she hissed at him, shoving her shaft down his throat. Every time she went deep he gagged, but he put his hands behind his back so he wouldn't forget and touch her.

"You think you're going to take it all this time?" she demanded of him. He looked up at her with his big brown eyes. The constant gagging was making them tear up, but the abuse was just what he wanted, what he was paying her for. When she was finished she knew he'd take the filled LuvGluv somewhere private, put it on himself, and masturbate furiously. Ricky wouldn't tell anyone about their little arrangement, and neither would she. If the miners found out about her extra parts her business would drop off precipitously. These backward wastelanders were so closeminded.

As she brutally skullfucked him, the room echoing with the wet sound of his gagging, she idly wondered how much more money she'd be able to make before close. The bar was still packed, with more men coming in all the time. She had time to do at least another twenty, even if Mom closed up early, which wasn't likely.

CHAPTER NINE-NEW DIRECTIONS

S'Leah stroked herself idly, eyes closed, head resting on the back of the tub. The bar of soap that she'd found had been third rate at best, hardly lathering up at all, but at least the water was hot. It helped ease the ache in her neck, and hot water was the only thing that stopped the pain in her nipples completely.

The bar downstairs was quiet, finally. Mom had shooed the last miners out just before four a.m., at least all those who hadn't found a whore willing to let them overnight. S'Leah had stayed busy right til the end, and now her innards were gurgling and churning from all the semen she'd ingested. None of the miners had been the One. She was starting to believe He didn't exist, no matter what her benefactor said. A figure of myth, not that she'd say that to her face.

Her breasts bobbed against the soapy film coating the water as she gently stroked her penis. The tub was too small for real comfort. She had to either bend her legs to fit, knees rising out of the water, or hang her feet over the edge of the tub.

The water began to cool and S'Leah reluctantly pulled the stopper. She ran the hot water to rinse the soap film from her skin and then stood up in the tub. The one towel she had was still damp from mopping up blood, although she'd managed to rinse it more or less back to its mottled grey hue. She stood in the tub for a few minutes, letting the water drip off, then stepped out. S'Leah spread the towel on the wood floor in the center of the room, then went to the bed and dug through her bag.

She returned to the center of the room and sat crosslegged on the small towel, still nude. Water dripped slowly from her nipples as she laid the grey rectangle, not much bigger than her palm, on the floor in front of her. S'Leah took a deep breath, breathed it out slowly, and touched the square.

Vaporous arcs of color swirled up from the square to coalesce into a ball in front of her face. The colors slowly churned, finally dissolving into the face of her benefactor in her ubiquitous hooded purple robe.

"Yes, my child? How goes the struggle in…JoTown, is it?" There was only a slight electronic warbling to her voice. It should have been worse, given the distance.

"I work hard for the sisterhood, soulmother," S'Leah said, bowing her head briefly. "But the work…I don't know how much I'm accomplishing."

"Tell me what you have learned, child."

"A royal passed this way less than a day ago, mother. She was alone, and left at dawn heading west. White, black, and grey robe, and two mounts of exceptionally good breeding. One of the locals here sports a hoof-boot shaped bruise on his chest and a cracked rib from trying to mount one of these ponies. I'm sorry that I don't have more information. No one really saw her face or caught her name, and I'll draw attention to myself if I ask too many questions."

"Nonsense. You've performed excellently, as usual."

"Should I continue west? I could acquire my own mounts and carriage."

The image pursed its lips. "No, I know where this one is going. It would serve no purpose for you to follow. No, instead I want you to head north."

"North?"

"Find transportation to IronHeart, a small town three days travel by pony north. There, on the fourth day, a person will be boarding a stagecoach north to Greenwood. This person is of the bloodline, and will behave as such, so you will have no problems with identification. There may be attendants. You are to make this person's acquaintance, and make your company so desirable they ask you to accompany them beyond Greenwood. An estate is within a few days travel from Greenwood, I know not where. This is your destination. How you get there is up to you. However, I will add that by reputation this person is very accessible, and has a taste for the unusual. The more unusual the better, they say. From the Clan Infibula. Can you do this?"

"If it can be done, I will do it, soulmother," S'Leah said, bending her head.

"You seem tense, child. Are you still searching for the One?"

"Everywhere I go." There was a hint of discouragement in her voice.

"You have a gift, even though you do not appreciate it as such. With your gift you serve the sisterhood. Revel in that when you are gathering seed, and the weight will be lifted from your heart. Now go. You have three days to think and plan. Empty yourself of petty concerns. Lose your fears in the vastness of the western deserts. Rejoice in your life, in your freedom, in your being ."

S'Leah bent her head and clasped her hands together. "My love, my heart, my loins burn for you," she said in parting.

"The fire keeps us pure," the figure acknowledged, and then the image fuzzed and dissolved.

Duster was up before sunrise, wanting to be on the road while the air was still cool and moist. He slept with his team in the stables, as was his practice. No one had yet successfully stolen or mounted one of his ponies, and although they were both branded and barren, he wanted to keep it that way. Besides, usually at least one of the team was frisky after a hard run, so it was almost his duty to make himself available to them. It kept them from trying to stray.

The JoTown stables had a nice oversize stall where he could bed down all eight of his ponies. Very convenient. He'd just lock himself in with them, and their security was assured. They slept in just their armbinders, hooked to their tall collars. The frisky ones either approached him or a teammate, spread their legs, and simulated thrusting motions to indicate their desires, then laid down on their backs (for a teammate) or got on their knees (for him). Even with their bits out they didn't talk, although they often licked one another to sleep. They usually climaxed before he did, so it always worked out better for him when more than one of them wanted his attentions.

The night before none of the team had been interested in anything other than sleeping after their long day in the heat. He'd barely wrestled his lead pony onto her knees before she'd fallen asleep, knees to chest, forehead against the stable floor, and no amount of vigorous thrusting was enough to wake her up. Her skin was black as night, and still hot from the sun baking it all day. Duster liked it better when they were awake, but either way it still felt good. He stared at her stubbly head as he worked his tool in her moist folds and made a mental note to shave their heads again soon.

In the morning he'd awakened with a piercing headache for no apparent reason, and was a little rough putting their leathyrs on. With their high pain threshold none of them appeared to notice. They each got a handful of ponymix and free access to the water hose while he worked them into their bits, boots, and corsets. The only bad thing about overwatered mounts was that they tended to cramp up, but he deliberately took it slow first thing in the morning so that was never a problem. Better minor cramping from a full belly than major cramping from dehydration. He had no passengers booked for the trip north, but he made it a habit after hitching his team up to pull the coach around to the front of Mom's in case somebody decided they needed to leave town quickly.

The sun was just peeking over the horizon when he snapped the reins. With a chorus of creaking leathyr the team leaned into their harnesses and pulled the stagecoach around the corner of the stables and into the street. The air was still cool, almost brisk for that time of year, but without a cloud in the sky he knew it would be a scorcher by midday.

One lone figure was standing in front of Mom's, watching the team approach. At first he thought it was a fresh-faced teenage boy, but as Duster reined his team to a stop he realized it was just a short-haired woman. She wore black leathyr pants over square-toed boots and a charcoal grey shortwaisted jacket of rough cotton. She peered into the coach, saw nobody, then looked around to see if there was anyone else waiting.

"No passengers?" S'Leah asked.

Duster jerked his thumb behind him at the boxes strapped to the top of the coach. "Just supplies for Gravestown," he said. The ponies shifted restlessly in the cool air—they got anxious whenever they were in harness and not running. A few squatted and relieved themselves in the dusty street, and he climbed down from the coach with a grunt.

Something about the woman seemed familiar, but he couldn't remember ever seeing her before. He grabbed the pony shovel from where it was leaning against the porch post. "You lookin' for passage?"

"How long to Ironheart?" The front of her jacket was undone and he caught a glimpse of tight black rubber beneath it. He didn't know how these people did it, wore rubber in a desert climate, but they did. Leathyr and rubber. He knew that was all most of them could afford, and the clothes sported brass eyelets in strategic places for ventilation, but still . His hemp outfit was hot enough, but at least it breathed, and he'd been willing to pay the extra money for that.

"Three and a half days." He scooped up the dark stools from between his ponies shuffling hoofboots and dumped them in the nearby barrel. The pungent puddles would be dry before most of the town was awake.

"Three and a half?"

"Day and a half to Gravestown. I stop there and overnight, then it's another day and a half to Ironheart." Her leathyr pants were tight around her muscular thighs but baggy everywhere else. After a decade driving ponies he appreciated a woman with strong thighs. She also showed the promise of healthy breasts under that jacket, but whether he'd ever get to taste her wares….There was no way to tell if she was one of the sockets-for-hire that worked Mom's, and he wasn't about to ask. She looked like there was a lot of mean in her just waiting for a chance to leak out.

She squinted in thought and scuffed a toe in the dirt. The square toed boots had three and a half inch heels, the closest she could come to standing flatfooted after twenty years in hoofboots on the balls of her feet.

"I need to be in Ironheart, and no later than that. You pick up many passengers in Gravestown?"

"None. Purely a supply stop, pick up and drop off. Sometimes one of 'em'll come south, but they don't go up to Ironheart." She'd obviously never been to Gravestown, or she wouldn't have asked the question. "I'll get you to Ironheart on time, that I guarantee."

"How much?"

"Seventy."

There was a brief pause, then she dug into her bag for the cash, which she handed him. S'Leah looked around once, saw no one else heading for the coach, and then opened the door and climbed aboard.

The bag had triggered Duster's memory. Same kind as the robed woman he'd dropped off the day before had carried. Could it be the same person? She was the right size, had the right build.

Oh well. He shrugged, climbed back into his seat, flicked the reins, and they moved away from Mom's. The team knew the route, and even with the explosive growth JoTown was still a small town. There was only one road heading north, and even at a slow trot they were away from the last buildings in just a few minutes.

The coach had decent springs, and bounced only slightly as the ponies pulled it over the hardpacked road. S'Leah locked the doors and peered out the windows to both sides. Nothing visible in either direction other than rolling scrubland, and the driver couldn't see inside, unless he climbed onto the roof and hung his head over the edge. She took off her jacket and folded it, placing it on the bench seat as a pillow. The black rubber top she wore was highnecked and sleeveless. Her breasts spilled out of the horizontal oval opening in the rubber sheath. The opening across her chest was just barely big enough to accommodate her fleshy globes, which were pushed together by the tight rubber. Miners, ever the poetic types, called it a titshirt. They were quite popular among whores and their customers, as well as those women who couldn't afford brassieres or were too busty to comfortably wear standard rubber sheath tops. S'Leah's nipples were two reasons she was wearing one.

Though she wouldn't admit it to herself, the two decades spent as a mount had left certain indelible marks on her psyche that she was powerless to erase. It was almost impossible for her to fall asleep unless she folded her arms up behind her back, as if she was still in an armbinder, and most mornings she'd find she'd wedged something between her jaws during the night to act as a bit. The tight clothing she favored mirrored, in some ways, the corset she'd worn. But S'Leah refused to even acknowledge that she could never fully escape her past. She lay on her side on the bench, and rested her head on her folded cotton jacket. The wooden seat was cold against the side of her breast, but soon warmed.

Between not having slept all night and the coach's gentle bouncing, she was fast asleep inside two minutes, shifting restlessly for a while. Finally, she folded her arms up between her shoulder blades, fingertips up near the nape of her neck, and passed into deep, dreamless sleep.

CHAPTER TEN--GRAVESTOWN

"What the hell is that?" S'Leah raised a hand to shield her eyes from the harsh sun. The movement lifted her breasts and Duster eyed them appreciatively She'd made it clear she wasn't interested, but if she was going to sit up here beside him with her tits in the breeze, he was going to look at them whenever he damn well wanted. It was odd—his ponies had theirs out and bouncing around all the time, but watching them didn't do anything for him. He guessed it must be because they were ponies and didn't have any choice in the matter.

"That's Gravestown."

S'Leah studied the row of dark forms stretching across nearly the whole horizon. She couldn't tell what she was looking at because the heat mirage turned everything in the distance to boiling soup.

She'd spent the whole first day in the coach, sleeping, planning, and pleasuring herself. They'd overnighted under a massive overhang, and Duster built a fire to keep the team warm. Out in the desert he kept them in their leathyrs but unhitched them—there was nowhere for them to wander off to. The sight of the team huddled together on the ground against the cool air brought forth a torrent of memories of her life in the royal stables. As difficult as she'd been there'd still been many nights when she slept with the other mounts. The musk of leathyr, rubber, and cocoa butter lotion filled her nostrils as they lay side by side in their armbinders and ballgags in the royal stables. As high-performance mounts heavily doped with hormones and bred for speed, there was hardly a night when the Royal ponies didn't fall asleep after hours of grinding against each other's thighs. During the day they ridiculed it, but at night the other mounts appreciated S'Leah's veiny organ. Its head, of course, was ringed to the underside of her scrotum, but her stablemates could still effectively rub themselves against its hard curved length, bringing themselves and her off. Shins, knees, buttocks and toes were also popular grinding surfaces—pretty much anything they could wrap their thighs around. None of the trainers made an issue about her seed, so S'Leah assumed she was sterile.

Duster shot a large hare with the coach gun and cooked it on a spit over the fire. He fed his team by hand as they knelt in a semicircle around the blaze. S'Leah sat on a rock and watched the whole thing, eating her meat, her face expressionless. The rabbit was tasty, but her appetite was soured by having to watch him finger feed the morsels to the mounts. They ate PonyMix too, and drank a lot of water before lying down together. For an hour they'd been nothing but an undulating pile of flesh. Duster had waded in, and in gratitude for the tasty rabbit flesh, and perhaps to expend the energy they all had after a relatively easy run on what had turned out to be an unseasonably cool day, the ponies had buried him with their writhing bodies. S'Leah had slept in a ballgag all her days as a pony, but Duster only bitted his ponies when they were in harness. His ponies seemed to prefer tonguing each other to grinding, and the overhang echoed with the sounds of their pleasure.

S'Leah had quickly retreated into the coach, telling herself she was disgusted, even though the tightness of her pants said it was more than just disgust she was feeling. She'd only decided to ride with Duster the next morning because the coach was making her claustrophobic.

They were several hours past the noon water stop when she'd spotted the dark line on the horizon. As the ponies jogged the line turned into a giant ragged fence, stretching from the edge of the road in front of them to the east for at least a mile, until the mirage melted the sky and earth into a molten sliver shimmer.

When the coach was a mile out the jumbled forms finally resolved themselves into row after row of huge airplanes. She'd seen pictures of them in history books, but hadn't realized they were so big. There were too many to count, crouching in the dirt like a huge swarm of rusting locusts.

"Airplane graveyard," Duster told her. "And heliochoppers, big mechanical wagons, and a bunch of other things I don't know the names of." He cursed at the hot sun and wiped at the sweat trickling down his nose. She still wore her rubber top and leathyr pants, but he was damned if he could see one hint of sweat on her. Hell, even his mounts were sweating, and it hadn't been that long since their last water break.

"People live here?"

He nodded. "They search the graveyard for salvage, which they sell for supplies, food. I take their finds to a dealer in Greenwood, he gives me money, and I buy what I can from their shopping list at the mercantile."

S'Leah could hardly think of a life more depressing. Living in a graveyard of lifeless, rusting steel, picking the carcasses for crumbs, surrounded by a sea of barren rolling hills.

"Why don't they do it themselves?" she asked him. It would give them an excuse to get the hell out of this desolate place , she thought, if only for a few days .

"Do the trading?" He shrugged. "They could, but they like keeping to themselves. That's why they're here, in the middle of nowhere. Most of 'em haven't had much luck fitting in most places. They wandered in one at a time and decided to stay."

They kept rolling closer and closer, and the line of machinery just extended alongside the road as far as she could see.

"How much land does this cover?" she asked in wonder.

"Miles," Duster told her. "Their . . . meeting place is near the midpoint. Once we past the first hulk we've got another mile and a half."

A short while later they passed the first dessicated plane fuselage, lying on its side near the road. Most of the other planes were in better shape and lined the right side of the road. Some still perched on landing gear that hadn't collapsed.

S'Leah stared at the corroded hulks, surprised at their complexity. The rows were evenly spaced and stretched away from the road as far as she could see. There was no sign of human life anywhere.

"We're staying here for the rest of the day?" she said, pulling on her grey jacket. The rough cotton against her nipples made her wince.

Duster shot a small smile her way. "Trust me, it's more inviting than it looks." The ponies had increased their pace as soon as they'd caught sight of the row of planes. They were always happy to end a run, but for some reason they seemed to like Gravestown more than most of their stops. He tugged on the reins, slowing them to a fast walk, so they wouldn't cramp up when they stopped.

A break in the endless line of dead machines appeared before them. In a gap big enough to park several planes a handful of buildings had been thrown together. They appeared to be made of salvaged parts, bolted or welded together to form small misshapen huts.

"Stables, water tanks, refuse pit," Duster said. "They actually live in the field, in and amongst the planes."

As the team slowly clip-clopped toward the cluster of buildings S'Leah looked around. Still no sign of people.

"They'll most likely be out in the fields, scrounging parts," he said to her unanswered question. "But there's bound to be someone around, they know I'm coming."

Duster halted the team alongside the largest of the conglomerated buildings, a two-story boxy steel structure. A wide metal door had been rolled open on the south side of the building, the shaded side. The inside was pitch blackness.

"Hello there!" Dusty boomed, his voice fading away flatly into the distance. "Stagecoach! Supplies!" He stood up and slowly climbed down off the coach on stiff legs. S'Leah heard a clank and a silhouette appeared in the doorway.

"Dusty, you goat, what the hell you yellin fer?" The woman stepped into the light and squinted at him. "You know we're never more'n a toss away."

The drawl was a bit unexpected, as was her appearance. S'Leah had been expecting miners, or their equivalent. This woman was in her twenties, had long blonde hair tied into a ponytail which was pulled through the hole in the back of her billed navy blue ball cap. She wore stained dark blue coveralls, and from the way they hung on her she had to be rather thin. Her tiny hands confirmed S'Leah's suspicions that she was smallboned and skinny. The woman had an attractive face, lightly tanned with strong cheekbones, which looked totally out of place above the dirty and stained coveralls. A nametag on the left side of her chest read MIA. Mia had a wide black smudge on her jaw. She was, oddly enough, barefooted.

"Got someone wit ya this time, I see," she said.

"Heading to Ironheart," Duster said. "She's, uh . . ." he waved a vague hand at S'Leah. "Hell, I don't know who she is."

"S'Leah," she introduced herself.

Mia smiled and nodded, stuffing her hands in the front pockets of her coveralls. "Pleased to meet ya," she said.

S'Leah almost jumped back as a huge shape glided from the doorway. Mia looked down and absently patted the Great Dane's head. Its shoulders came up to her hips. It blinked slowly, having just awakened form its midday nap. The dog spotted S'Leah and came toward her. She tried not to look nervous as the big dog approached, but all it did was bury its nose in her crotch.

"Were you able to get everything on the list?" The question came from the doorway, and another woman stepped into view. This one was middleaged, with a creased, tanned face and a warm smile. Her stocky body was shapely, but thirty pounds the far side of voluptuous, and her light blue coveralls strained at the seams. Her cleavage was, in a word, abundant. Her black hair was brushcut and peppered with grey, and she wore a silver ring through each earlobe.

"All but the toggle bolts. What, not even a hello, how do you do?" Duster said, feigning hurt feelings.

"Awww, you poor baby," the woman said. She moved quickly to Duster, cupped his chin in both hands, and planted a wet kiss on his lips with an exaggerated smack. "Feel better now?"

Duster smiled. "Only if you're going to help me unload this wagon."

A second dog emerged from the shadows, this one a Doberman Pinscher. Only the short-haired breeds had survived the germ years, S'Leah knew, and the bigger they were the better they'd done. The Doberman came directly over to S'Leah and pushed its nose into her crotch, snuffling hard.

"Just push them away, they won't bite," the older woman told he, nudging the dog's muzzle. She looked around for the Great Dane and saw it was in amongst the ponies. It had pushed its nose between one of the mounts' legs and was busy licking her with his wide tongue. The pony was quivering with delight and had widened her stance and cocked her hips to give the dog better access.

"Dusty," the woman said, and jerked her head at the dog. "Should I grab him?"

Dusty gave it just a second of thought. "Aw, let 'em have their fun," he said. The mount was grunting against her bit and pushing her hips into the dog's snout. The dog licked and licked and licked like a mindless automaton. She would've been on the balls of her feet if the hoofboots hadn't forced it of her anyway. The Doberman left S'Leah and wandered toward the ponies. A few of them saw it and turned as well as they could in their harnesses and spread their legs invitingly.

"I'm Gwenda," the woman said, extending her hand. S'leah took it and gave her name.

"We don't have much, but we've got a coldwater well and some shade," Gwenda told her jovially. "After sundown we're gonna start a fire or three and have us a barbeque. You're welcome to join us."

"Those rabbits doin fine?" Duster asked, loosing the ties that kept the supplies from shifting on the coach's roof.

"Hell, we catch 'em quicker'n we kin raise 'em," Gwenda said.

"Am I gonna get any help up here or what?" Dusty demanded.

"Keep yourself cool," she chided him. "Georgie!" Gwenda called out. "Georgieee!"

S'Leah heard mumbling and another person emerged from the shed. He was a hulking brute, and walked uncertainly, like he'd just learned how. His forehead bulged oddly, and his tongue was far too big for his mouth. He looked around, with a gaze so vacant S'Leah wasn't sure he even saw her. He wore stained coveralls too short in the arms and legs, and smelled like he hadn't taken them off to wash in weeks.

Georgie mumbled to himself, the sounds garbled and unintelligible, and looked around slowly until he spotted Gwenda. She pointed to the top of the stagecoach.

"Supplies, Georgie!" she said. "Grabby grab. Help grabby grab."

He gave a forceful grunt, said three nonsense syllables that barely made it past his tongue, and walked toward the coach. S'Leah got out of the way as Dusty began tossing down forty pound bags of fertilizer and flour. Georgie caught them like they were feathers.

Mia walked into view around the back of the building. S'Leah hadn't noticed her leave, but while she'd been gone she'd changed her clothes. The longsleeve blue coveralls had been replaced by grey bib overall shorts, but she'd kept the billed cap and still hadn't put on any shoes. She approached the group, hands buried in her front pockets, looking bored.

Her legs were far too skinny for S'Leah's taste. They looked like twigs coming out of the shorts, but she realized her perception of what skinny legs were was forever skewed by her time around ponies. Mia had apparently nothing on under the canvas overalls. The bob front covered her breasts, barely, but the openings on the sides went down to her hipbones. Her breasts were mere swellings on her chest, her ribs prominent.

"Mia, this is S'Leah," Gwenda said. Mia put out her hand.

"We've met," S'Leah said, looking at the hand.

"No no, that was Mia ," Gwenda told her. "This is Nia ."

"Oh," S'Leah said with a bit of confusion, but shook her hand anyway. Twins, she supposed, although physically she couldn't detect any difference. Identicals?

"We've got running water in here," Gwenda said to S'Leah. "Let me show you, maybe you'll want to clean up while they're unloading and taking care of the team."

The Doberman wandered over to Nia and stuck his snout inside the loose pantleg of her overall shorts. Wet snuffling sounds came from inside Nia's overalls. S'Leah stared at the dog and Nia with the bored expression on her face as she followed Gwenda into the building.

The combination stable, supply closet, and maintenance shed was dark and surprisingly cool. Gwenda led S'Leah to an alcove across from a ponywashing stall. A stained sink was set into a scored wooden counter. Gwenda pointed out the chunk of soap and found a small hand towel for S'Leah that was stained but clean.

"Yer welcome to wander around," Gwenda told her. She slid shut the chest-high door that separated the sink area from the rest of the building and leaned her elbows on it. "Not much going on now. Once it cools down we all migrate toward the center of the graveyard. We got some cooking pits out there, and tonight we're going to have some rabbit and lizard. Someone'll show you the way, the field's pretty big."

"That's very kind of you," S'Leah said. "I wasn't expecting to get fed. How much do I owe you?"

"Now don't insult me by offering to pay for what's just common courtesy," Gwenda scolded her. She watched as S'Leah took off her jacket and beat it to remove some of the embedded dust.

"Well, you're surprisingly well equipped," Gwenda remarked, apropos of nothing. When S'Leah gave her a strange look Gwenda smiled and straightened up.

"I'll leave you alone to wash up," she said brightly. "Hope you've got a good appetite." Gwenda strolled off with a wave.

S'Leah undressed and scrubbed herself down with the small towel. The soap was harsh and the water trickled from the rusty faucet, but it still felt wonderful to scrub the road dirt from her pores. S'Leah rinsed off her rubber titshirt and slid it back on still wet. She used the towel to wipe her leathyr pants off inside and out before putting those back on too. She wore no underwear, never having gotten used to it after so many years as a pony. Just getting used to the feel of outerwear, pants and shirts, had taken her months.

As she was finishing up Dusty led his team in. He hosed them off two at a time before locking them into a plain cement-floored room at the back of the building where they would sleep. By the time he'd finished with the team the sun was sinking toward the horizon and the oppressive heat had slackened somewhat. After spreading out a few ratty blankets to protect his ponies from the concrete, which could get very cold at night, Dusty found S'Leah leaning against the open door, staring out at the dessicated airplane hulks.

"Well, the team's all set," he said, making conversation. She glanced at him and he made a point of looking at her face, instead of at her chest. She still wore her rubber titshirt, and had foregone the jacket.

"How many people live here?" she asked him. He could just make out a few figures in the distance, moving among the planes, as tiny as ants.

"I don't know, thirty or forty," he said.

"How many men?"

"Oh, just Georgie, and maybe two more like him," Dusty told her. "No real men."

"Then why'd you lock your mounts up?" she asked him. One of the distant figures was heading their way, walking slowly.

"The dogs," he told her. "There's dozens of 'em wandering around here. I don't want them humping my mares, they won't run well."

That explanation didn't ring particularly true to S'Leah. He didn't seem too worried the night before when he'd been the one humping his ponies. Jealousy, maybe? Well, they were his ponies.

The figure grew close enough for S'Leah to see it was a woman, a brunette, with an awkward gait. The reason for her lopsided walk grew apparent as she drew close—her belly was distended with child.

"Hello, Dusty," she called out between pants. She wore a light yellow dress that billowed around her slender legs. Her belly was very large. S'Leah guessed she was due anytime. The woman's breasts strained the buttons running down the front of the dress. It look like they'd doubled in size since she'd bought the dress.

"Hi there Miri."

Her breath was ragged and she was sweating profusely. "I need some water," she said, then looked at S'Leah. "Hitchin a ride with this ne'er do well?" she asked.

S'Leah smiled and nodded and introduced herself. Miri had a wide pretty face, with light brown hair cut short and feathered around the edges. She didn't seem to have on anything under the dress and still she was sweating heavily. Technically she should have been at a birthing center, or under the personal attention of one of the territory's roaming midwives, but S'Leah knew how problematic that could be. She couldn't imagine what it was like, being pregnant. Miri's belly led the way wherever she went, huge and alien to S'Leah's eyes. Pregnant women weren't common sight; she couldn't remember how long it'd been since she'd seen one.

Miri headed into the building and S'Leah was left alone with Dusty again. "Well, I think I'm going to head in," he said. "They tell you how to get there?" he asked her.

"No, not really."

"Just head down this row here," he pointed between two planes. "When you get to the big red plane on the right, turn left, go three rows, turn right, and you'll run into the clearing. Easy to find." He pushed off from the doorway and started walking across the dusty ground.

Gwenda had said to start heading toward the cooking pits at sundown, but S'Leah didn't want to try navigating through the creepy phantom-like husks after dark. She headed back inside to grab her bag and found Miri nude in the washing stall, hosing herself off. S'Leah couldn't help but stare at her distended belly. She'd never seen a pregnant woman nude before. Miri's breasts were swollen to an enviable firmness and her big palm-sized nipples were a dark brownish-red. Suddenly she noticed Miri was watching her.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to stare," S'Leah said, averting her eyes and spinning away to find her bag.

"That's okay, I'm used to it. That's the only good thing about this belly, it gets me attention." Miri's sex was swollen and distended, its lips dark and hanging down several inches. S'Leah didn't know if this was because she was pregnant, fro the weight of her belly above, or….she tore her eyes away again and found her bag.

"Nice to meet you," she muttered, and hurried away.

Miri smiled and closed her eyes as the cool water trickled over her hot body. She rinsed the dirt and grime out of her hair, then shut off the water and waited to drip dry.

Dusty had locked up the ponies in their stall again, she saw. Didn't want the dogs in with his mounts. Too jealous. Nice man, but not the smartest guy around. She put her eye to the crack in the door and saw the outline of the dog door in the outside wall of the stall. It sounded like there were at least three dogs in there already with the team, although she could only see the tip of one wildly gyrating tail. The dogs would be in and out of there all night, and gone for good before Dusty ever got the pen unlocked in the morning, none the wiser. As usual.

CHAPTER ELEVEN--THE COLLECTIVE

S'Leah had been expecting a five or ten minute walk, but she'd been trudging between the towering airships for fifteen minutes and still couldn't see the red one Duster had mentioned. She had to assume his directions were good, since she had no alternative, but it was getting dark and she didn't relish getting lost in the huge junkyard

Up close the airplanes were even more impressive in size. At least half still perched on their landing gear and towered over her, blocking the stars as they slowly appeared.

A low growl grew audible behind her and S'Leah turned, gripping the handle of the tanto inside her bag. Instead of one of the many dogs inhabiting Gravestown, two of whom were paralleling her, she saw a motorized buggy approaching her across the sandy desert floor. S'Leah hadn't seen a gas powered vehicle since she'd crossed Big River into the Western Territories. The Gravestown residents must have located a well with a pump that still worked, and found some way to refine the oil.

Gwenda pulled up next to her with a grin. The buggy had four knobby balloon tires and pulled a small trailer.

"I can't believe Dusty just left you to find yer own way," Gwenda said with a shake of her head. She wore thick-lensed goggles to protect her eyes from the blowing sand. She jerked a thumb back to the trailer. "Jump on."

S'Leah sat on the flatbed trailer next to Miri and Gwenda slowly accelerated down the row of planes. Blue clouds of exhaust burped from the buggy's tailpipe every time Gwenda changed gears.

The red plane, with looked brown in the gathering gloom, was just a minute ahead. Gwenda turned left, then right, then followed a narrow aisle for half a mile. Then the aisle opened up into a large clearing a hundred yards across. Three fire pits dotted the clearing, clustered in the center. Blankets and rickety handmade chairs circled the pits.

After the emptiness of the desert the fifteen or so people in the clearing seemed like a crowd to S'Leah. She and Miri climbed off the trailer and Gwenda drove off to collect more stragglers.

In the deepening shadows S'Leah could see large gardens underneath most of the planes within view. She supposed the shade made life easier for the plants. Also, several of the planes looked inhabited. She saw movement and the flickering light of candles in two, and a wide ramp ran down from the back of a third. The ground at the end of the ramp was packed hard and dotted with footprints.

A fire was started in one pit, and soon the other two were going as well. S'Leah drifted in that direction but couldn't tell what they were using for fuel. The desert wasn't exactly rich with wood.

"Dried vines," one of the firebuilders told S'Leah when she asked. "Where it's shady they grow up the landing gear and just tear apart the aluminum. We cut them down and dry them in the sun. They burn like tumbleweeds."

More and more women filled the clearing as the light went out of the sky and the stars came out. Double spits were set up over each fire and over a dozen skinned and cleaned rabbits and four sand lizards were produced.

As the meat began to cook S'Leah was given a spot to sit in front of one of the fires, on an old red plaid blanket. Small bowls were handed out, filled with mixed greens and berries in a sparse salad. Women sat around all the fires and ate, talking quietly and laughing. On one side of S'Leah was Gwenda, acting as a sort of host. To her other was a darkly tanned woman simply called Gomez, in brown leathyr pants and a denim longsleeve shirt.

"Do you do this every night?" S'Leah asked Gwenda, looking around the clearing at the fires and the laughing women.

Gwenda looked around and smiled. "Well, this is our gathering place, and we sleep around here, in the planes." She nodded her head at the airplane with the well-traveled ramp. "Most every night we've got a fire going, and something cooking, but we're here or there." She waved a hand at the surrounding darkness. "Not everyone likes to be sociable every night. But every fifth night we fire up all three pits and have a party. Everyone has to make an appearance, and share what news—and meat—they have, even if they're not feeling friendly. A few of the women make what they can with the vegetables, and we pass around the tea." Gwenda handed S'Leah a steaming mug. She sniffed at the tangy brew it held.

"Chukka root tea," Gwenda told her knowingly. S'Leah had never heard of chukka root, much less its tea, but she nodded and took a sip. Not bad. Gwenda smiled, and went back to talking to Mia. Or Nia, S'Leah couldn't tell. Actually, whoever it was had changed into baggy shorts and a poorly made brown leathyr vest, so S'Leah had no way of knowing which sister it was.

"S'Leah, have you met Tia?" Gwenda asked her. Tia gave her a wide smile.

"Tia," S'Leah repeated. "No, I haven't heard that name before."

"Hope this isn't too coarse for you," the ponytailed blonde said, waving her hand at the fires and the roasting rabbits. "Sometimes I think we forget what it must look like to cultured folk."

"Is it that apparent?" S'Leah said.

Tia smiled and wandered toward the nearest fire. Halfway there she met up with two figures and they began talking. S'Leah sipped at her tea and watched them converse. Tia, talking to Mia and Nia if she had to judge from their clothing. And, except for their clothing, all perfectly identical.

S'Leah leaned over to Gwenda. "How many of them are there?" she asked, nodding at the trio. Gwenda looked in that direction.

"Four," she said.

"Mia, Nia, Tia, and…?"

"Pia," Gwenda said. She peered around and pointed at the third bonfire. Pia wore leathyr shorts, a long sleeve button-down shirt, and wore her long hair loose.

Clones. S'Leah studied them over her tea as she waited for the rabbit to cook. Found unsuited to whatever task they'd been grown for? Given their freedom? On the run? How they'd ended up in this arid junkyard was probably quite a story.

By the time the meat arrived, rabbit and lizard, sliced into strips and accompanied by a fresh baked roll, S'Leah was joking and laughing with the women around her. She felt uncharacteristically relaxed and free of worries. Surrounded by friendly people, eating good food, the anger she held in her heart sunk out of sight. She felt like a normal person, talking and laughing, and didn't hold herself in as she always did. The good food and laughter, the cool air and the heat from the fire combined to make her forget her past, lower her guard, and to freely give of herself.

"Don't you worry about attacks?" S'Leah asked Gwenda as she leaned back on her elbows, stomach full from the excellent meal.

"Not too much," Gwenda said. "We're a lot better defended than you'd think. The dogs spot anybody long before they get close, so we get advance warning of any visitors, day or night. We also have quite a few weapons, heavy weapons. A few that we bartered for, but most we just found in the graveyard and repaired."

"And this place is a maze, especially at night," Gomez added, leaning in toward S'Leah. Her face came close and she licked her lips, staring at S'Leah's mouth. After a few seconds she leaned back, smiling.

"We've only had one major raid in the past five years," Gwenda said. "A nomad caravan stopped and thought we'd be easy pickins."

"What happened?" S'Leah found herself talking to Gwenda's chest. Somehow Gwenda's coveralls had become unzipped down nearly to her navel, exposing the inner third of both breasts. They threatened to spill out entirely every time she moved. S'Leah's jacket was nowhere to be found, and the cool night air kept her nipples painfully hard, but she didn't care.

"They're buried in Northwest Thirty," Gwenda told her.

"All except Cutt," Gomez said, leaning in again.

"And their dogs," another woman sitting nearby in darkness said, and gave a laugh.

"Cutt?" S'Leah asked, her face close enough to Gomez' to feel her breath.

Gomez looked around and then nodded at a woman standing on the far side of the fire. S'Leah couldn't believe she hadn't noticed her before.

"She was a statua, a living piece of art for Clan Infibula before being sold to someone who sold her to someone who got killed by the nomads," Gomez whispered in her ear. "She killed four of them herself when the opportunity arose."

At first glance Cutt appeared squat, but S'Leah soon saw that her body was thick with muscle, making her appear shorter than she was. She stood before the fire and stared into its flames, totally nude in the cool evening air. S'Leah herself knew of the statua, and Cutt had probably never worn clothes. They would have covered up her tattoos.

The tattoos covered her entire body from her hairline to her ankles, done solely in jet black ink. There was much more bare flesh than inked, but every part of her body was accented in some way. She had an exaggerated, inked widow's peak, and her eyelids were totally black. Thin black lines covered the outside edge of her ears. There was a tattooed necklace with pendant around her throat, and a sun with black flames encircling her navel A peaked crescent on the lower slope of her muscled belly only accentuated the black triangle beneath it—her hairless mound had been completely inked.

When Cutt turned S'Leah saw long ladder-like designs running down the sides of her arms and legs, with another down her spine that ended in a triangle pointing down into the crack of her ass. Her nipples and areola were black, as were her lips. Her head was shaved but for an oval patch on top; from that grew a waist length black ponytail. The sides and back of her head were adorned with rows of patterns that could have been a foreign language.

Cutt squatted on her heels across the circle from S'Leah, and she caught a glimpse of silver between her legs. "What's that?" she asked Gomez.

"Clan Infibula snipped her lips off and sewed her slit shut, just like they do all their property," Gomez said. "They just left her button, but tattooing it killed off most of her nerve endings."

"No, what's that silver?"

"Oh. That's a little chain she'd got herself laced up with." Gomez leaned close again. "You have very pretty breasts," she breathed, and slowly reached a hand out. When S'Leah didn't raise any objection she began caressing them. Her palm was rough against S'Leah's skin, but her touch was gentle. S'Leah's hard cock throbbed where it was wedged down her pantleg. Firelight danced across the obvious bulge, but Gomez hadn't seen it yet, she was too focused on S'Leah's naked breasts.

S'Leah heard soft grunting and looked over her shoulder into the darkness. There, lit by the flickering orange flames, she saw a heavy breasted woman on her knees in the sand, grunting in time to a Great Dane's thrusts. Her breasts swung back and forth as the dog slammed its loins against her. The dog probably weighed what the woman did, if not more, and appeared quite well equipped. Both of them appeared well-practiced at the cross-species act. S'Leah saw another coupling under the nearest plane, as well as the silhouette of a Doberman just climbing atop a woman beside the most distant fire.

S'Leah turned back to her own fire. Gomez was now nuzzling her neck while massaging her breasts. S'Leah's cock was a bar of molten steel.

"Have you ever had a dog? A big dog?" she whispered into S'Leah's ear. S'Leah shook her head. Gwenda had unzipped her coveralls the rest of the way and stepped out of them. Two of the clones, S'Leah didn't know which ones, were voraciously sucking on Gwenda's nipples.

"There's nothing like it," Gomez murmured. She tongued S'Leah's ear and slid her hand down to the crotch of her pants.

"Whoa! Just what the hell do we have here?" Gomez' exclamation got the attention of half a dozen women. She unzipped S'Leah's pants and pulled out her stiff organ, then her scrotum. The women looked at S'Leah's cock, then her breasts, then back at her cock.

"What all do you have down here?" said Gomez, slipping her hand back into S'Leah's pants. Her fingers soon found S'Leah's small slit as well as her bulging sphincter.

"Are you a man or a woman?" Gomez asked, running her finger along S'Leah's moist slit. "Feels like you've got everything in here. Are you fertile?"

"No," S'Leah gasped, as the finger played with her slit. "Hormones," she gasped, by way of explanation. She didn't know what was wrong with her. Normally she could keep her strong libido under control without much effort at all. Now she found herself lifting her hips off the ground in hopes one of the women clustered around her would touch her flesh. Gomez took the opportunity to pull S'Leah's pants down to her ankles and push her knees apart.

"Nice cock," Gwenda said admiringly as Gomez pushed it this way and that, studying the small slit below S'Leah's bag. She pushed a finger deep into S'Leah, then tried a second.

"No, it's too tight," S'Leah protested, pushing at Gomez' hand.

Gomez could've gotten the second finger in but relented. S'Leah looked up and found Gwenda and all four clones standing around her.

"We want her," Mia said. Gomez looked up, one fist wrapped around S'Leah's veiny shaft.

"But I'm the one that found it," Gomez protested.

Miri stepped into view and put a hand on Gomez' shoulder. "Come on, lover, I've got something else for you to do," she murmured into her ear.

Gomez relented and S'Leah found herself being led up the ramp of a large cargo plane. The bare fuselage was one big living area subdivided into sleeping quarters by blankets hung over ropes, worn pillows and mattresses covering the floor. Candle lanterns hung from the ceiling and lit the interior with a warm orange glow. S'Leah could hear the soft sounds of lovemaking but couldn't see who they were coming from.

A crowd of women surrounded S'Leah on a mattress. They undressed her and each other speedily. As she knelt on the mattress S'Leah found herself encircled by the ponytailed blonde clones. After a time she realized she could tell them apart—Pia wore her hair loose, and Mia had a bruise on her left forearm. Nia had a small freckle on the outside of her left breast, and Tia was none of the above.

Tia stood above her and kissed S'Leah deeply, cocking her head back. Their tongues wrestled passionately and S'Leah reached up to caress her neck.

S'Leah's organ jutted forward aggressively as she bent against the kiss. Mia rolled onto her back before S'Leah and inched backward until her head was almost between S'Leah's thighs. She arched her head back and swallowed the end of S'Leah's throbbing organ.

S'Leah gasped and broke the kiss. She looked down to see Mia's long body laying before her, her lower jaw working against her tender shaft. Mia pushed the back of her head deeper into the mattress, arched her back, and slid backward onto S'Leah's cock, swallowing all but a fraction of an inch. S'Leah groaned and watched the muscles in Mia's slender throat working as she sucked and licked, her nose buried in S'Leah's bag. Her tongue squirmed against the top of the veiny shaft and she began rocking forward and back. S'Leah moaned as Mia worked her cock. Tia grabbed her by the hair and tilted her head back again, muffling her moans with a wild tongue and soft lips.

Mia reached up and grabbed S'Leah's ass. She pulled her forward, with the result of pulling her cheeks apart. Pia was on her knees behind S'Leah, greasing up her fingers. When her cell-sister spread S'Leah's muscular globes her spincter bulged outward aggressively. Pia stared at S'Leah's rear portal She'd never seen one like it, an ugly ring of bulging, calloused muscle, but she'd heard of such things. She covertly eyed S'Leah's thighs, whose musculature confirmed her suspicions. S'Leah was a former pony--only someone who'd lived and worked in a tailplug could have such an enlarged sphincter.

Gently she inserted the tip of a finger into S'Leah's rear channel, with no discernible reaction. She moved the greased finger back and forth for a while, then inserted a second. Her hands were small, and S'Leah's bulging knot was huge.

With Mia expertly throating her cock, and Tia kissing her passionately, it took a while for S'Leah to notice Pia's fingers gently moving back and forth in her desensitized channel. S'Leah broke the kiss and gasped for breath.

"I like it," she moaned. Tia reached down and began playing with her breasts, rolling S'Leah's nipples between her fingertips. Not only didn't it hurt, it felt good.

Mia was expertly skilled and S'Leah couldn't help but thrust her hips. She bent forward over Mia, hands on the mattress on either side of her hips and began thrusting into Mia's mouth.

"More fingers," S'Leah groaned. "Use more fingers."

Pia raised her eyebrows and looked up at Tia. She twisted her hand to show Tia that she already had four fingers in S'Leah's ass. Tia grabbed the bottle of lube and liberally coated Pia's hand and forearm.

Nia had her face buried between her cell-sister Mia's thighs, which only seemed to encourage Mia. She sucked hard at S'Leah's thrusting organ and spread her own thighs wide.

"Oh God, Oh God!" S'Leah cried out, the sensations incredible. The pleasure had blurred into one glowing orange ball, and she was unable to tell where Mia's mouth stopped and Pia's fingers started. She would buck forward, driving her cock deep down Mia's throat. Then, when she would pull back, Pia would thrust her fingers deep into her thick ring of muscle, stroking downward against what would have been the prostate on a man. The four fingers became four fingers and her small hand up to the thumb, then it was her whole hand. By the time S'Leah was shrieking and shuddering on top of Mia, her cock spurting seed wildly down her throat, Pia's small hand was inside her up to the middle of her slender forearm. S'Leah's muscular ring gripped her corkscrewing forearm tightly, pulsing as the waves of pleasure washed over her.

Gwenda was but a few yards away. She'd dragged Georgie up into the plane and made him lay on his back. She was still nude, her nipples big and dark in the candlelight.

"That's good Georgie, you just lie there," she told him, unzipping his coveralls. As the dirty coveralls fell open they revealed a white lumpy body covered with odd tufts of hair. Gwenda reached inside the coveralls and pulled out Georgie's penis and stroked it. His cock quickly stiffened and grew into an odd shape. It's tiny head rested atop an immensely wide shaft. Georgie stared at it like he'd never seen it before as Gwenda pushed him down. Gwenda quickly squatted over it and guided the small head between her thighs.

"Oh yeah," she murmured. "Urk!. Oh God but you're thick, boy," she muttered as she sank onto his stumpy organ. Georgie lay there blinking and silent, staring up at the ceiling, as Gwenda paused to let her insides adjust to his bulk. A small woman appeared, stopping next to Georgie's misshapen head. She was already nude and eager to join in.

"Room for one more?" she asked Gwenda, who was gently rocking back and forth.

"Yeah, take a seat," Gwenda groaned. The small woman did just that, on Georgie's face.

"Licky, Georgie," Gwenda told him. "Licky lick."

Georgie mumbled something unintelligible, opened his mouth, and out came his tongue. It was a massive pink thing, a blunt column of muscle that he squirmed into the woman's tanned folds. She sucked in air and pushed down hard.

"Lick that split, Georgie," Gwenda cooed, moving steadlily up and down on his fat cock. She could see his freakishly huge tongue slithering around between the woman's skinny thighs, massaging everything at once.

On the far side of S'Leah Miri had stripped herself and then Gomez, then pushed Gomez over onto all fours. Miri had strapped on a massively ridged black rubbed dildo and was busy plunging it into her partner. The sight of her huge belly thrusting back and forth was one of the many indelible images burned into S'Leah's brain that night.

S'Leah was only vaguely aware of al the activity around her. As she lay on Mia's taut body and tried to catch her breath Pia began to slowly twist the hand still deep inside her bowels.

"Oh God," S'Leah gasped, tears appearing in the corners of her eyes. She rested her forehead on Mia's stomach even as Mia once again began sucking on S'Leah's still turgid organ.

Pia wrapped her free hand around the base of S'Leah's sack and began tugging gently, then stuck the thumb of that hand into S'Leah's feminine channel. With a shuddering cry S'Leah orgasmed once again, sobbing, her tear-stained cheek pressed against Mia's smooth mound. Nia stroked her head compassionately, using her other hand to stroke Mia's slippery folds. The air was getting thick with the familiar scent of sex, and Nia predicted they wouldn't tire of their visitor until near daybreak. She was right.

"Did you get any sleep at all?" Duster asked her, hitching the last of his team to the coach.

"Some," S'Leah mumbled, squinting against the early morning sun. An hour, maybe two.

Duster grinned at her discomfort and double-checked all his ponies' leathyrs. He himself had gotten six hours of sleep after mounting four of the locals. He grinned wider at the memory. He loved Gravestown.

S'Leah stood beside the coach, waiting until everything was ready before climbing aboard. She was sore and achey in places and ways she hadn't been since her days in the royal stables, and was trying to avoid unnecessary movement. She'd lost count how many times she'd climaxed—eight, near as she could remember, until there was no more juice to be wrung from her body. She had never experienced sex of that quantity or duration, ever, and hadn't known what her body was capable of. She needn't have worried, the royal gene-splicers knew their trade—her organ hadn't softened until she'd passed out from exhaustion.

She'd had each of the clones at least once, and Gwenda twice. She'd fucked Miri, the whole time worried about hurting her baby; meanwhile Miri had been shouting Harder! Harder! S'Leah had done things last night that she was finding hard to believe in the harsh light of the morning after—like jacking herself off while a circle of women cheered her on. Or laying on her back, ankles tied to one of the clotheslines to keep them up, while the clones took turns fisting her ass with their tiny hands. They hadn't stopped no matter how she begged, and that had been when she'd begun dry climaxing, the orgasms increasing in frequency until they became continuous and she'd lost the power of rational thought.

"Don't forget that oil now, Dusty," Gwenda called out to him. She'd driven them to the stables on her buggy and waited to see them off. Most of the other women had been gone by the time S'Leah had awakened inside the airplane hull, sore and crusty. She'd washed up inside while Dusty strapped the leathyrs on his ponies. She wore her same outfit from the day before, but couldn't bear to put on the jacket. Her nipples were raw.

Dusty patted his pocket where he'd put the women's shopping list. "If they've got it, you'll get it," he told Gwenda. She nodded and looked at S'Leah.

"Will we be seein ya again when Dusty comes back around?" she asked.

"Probably not," S'Leah told her.

"Too bad," Gwenda said. She stepped close, and lowered her voice slightly, just enough so that Dusty couldn't overhear. "We always welcome those with generous heart, no matter who they were in a former life, what mistakes they might have made," she told S'Leah. "If you're ever looking for a home, you have one here."

S'Leah blinked in surprise, staring at the big woman. Gwenda stared back at her, her head inclined, and then her face broke out into a big smile. "Besides," she went on, no longer quiet, "my boy really liked you."

"Your boy?"

"My son, Georgie," Gwenda told her.

"Oh," S'Leah said. "You're fertile? I'm surprised you're out here. Didn't you want to be spoiled at one of the inseminariums?"

Gwenda shook her head. "It must have been a fluke. I was a public hole at a traveling circus for fifteen years and never had but Georgie."

S'Leah nodded. "When's Miri due?" she asked, changing the subject.

Gwenda waved the question away like an errant mosquito. "Oh, she's not pregnant," Gwenda told her. "It's just a water baby."

"Oh."

"She was a fetish in the Clan Bukkake harem," Gwenda explained.

Altering the bodies of ones playthings was a tradition as old as the clans, and the fetishettes were the logical extreme of that tradition. S'Leah had never seen a woman with a water baby before, but she knew of them, just as the women of Gravestown had heard of women with male equipment like S'Leah.

S'Leah knew the process of filling and stretching took months, then the balloon inside the woman's womb was sealed off when her owner was satisfied with her size. Hormones were often used to induce lactation, not just in pregnant fetishettes but in women who were chosen to become wetnurses, as well as some small percentage of each clan's harem just for the sake of variety. One of her benefactor's specialists had once told her the transformation of a pregnant fetishette was one of the easiest to complete, although not the quickest.

"Just look at how long it takes to train a pony in comparison," he'd said to her, ignorant of her past.

"Well, I think we're ready to go," Duster said.

"You come back anytime," Gwenda told S'Leah, then gripped her in a tight hug. S'Leah blinked in surprise, and reached an uncertain hand up.

"There's a place for you here if you ever get tired of travellin," Gwenda whispered into her ear. "You'll never be more at home than with us." She kissed S'Leah on the lips and then backed away, giving Dusty a hearty wave.

"Next time I'm getting you up into my plane," she scolded him. "What's the matter, don't you love me anymore?"

"You know you're the only one in my heart," Dusty told her with a grin as S'Leah carefully climbed into the coach. He flicked the reins and the ponies leaned forward to get the coach rolling.

"It's not your heart I was talking bout," Gwenda said with a barking laugh, and turned with a farewell wave. Dusty raised a hand in goodbye and turned to look down the road past his team. Gwenda stopped in the shade of the shed and silently watched the coach pull away, S'Leah's face behind the window, staring at her.

CHAPTER TWELVE—THE STABLES

"You'll be able to just see Emerson over that rise, milady, so this should be the turn-off you mentioned," Daka told her, pointing out the gravel track heading north over the green hills.

"Stop the team," she commanded him.

Daka pulled gently on the reins and the mares slowed to a stop. They were near the edge of exhaustion, he could tell, but their spirit was such that he knew they'd collapse before they'd quit.

The mares were mud-brown, streaked with over twelve hours of road dust and sweat. Their manes were straggly and if it wasn't for the stiff high collars their heads would've been hanging.

His mistress produced a small waterskin from beneath the bench seat, and a rag.

"Give them water," she told him. "Not more than half. Use the rest to clean them up. I've got a brush for their hair also."

The ponies sucked eagerly at the bag's spout and wanted more than he was allowed to give. Using the water sparingly he wet the rag and scrubbed the dirt and salty sweat crust from their bodies, then did as best he could with the brush on their hair. They weren't perfect when he was finished, but they didn't look like they'd just run nearly nonstop for twelve hours either.

"Here," his mistress said, producing another wooden box from underneath the seat. Daka opened it and found two odd-looking tailplugs and a tube of grease.

While rare in the Wash, Daka had nevertheless handled dozens of tailplugs in his time. Except for slight cosmetic and dimensional differences they were all pretty much the same: an anatomically shaped rubber oblong several inches long designed to nestle snugly in the mare's lower intestine. Narrow at the bottom and wide at the top to keep the mare from pushing it out, the plug also sported a flared flat oval base that kept the plug from being sucked into the mare's body. The base served as a platform for the decorative tail. Most tails were eight to twelve inches long, stiff, and topped with a tassel of some sort.

The plugs his mistress handed him were the strangest design he'd ever seen. The part to be inserted had to be six inches long, but barely thicker than the thumb-thick shaft near the base. And instead of a disk or oval base, the plugs had rubber fingers perpendicular to the plug that acted as stoppers, designed to fit between the mares muscular cheeks. He could see no reason to the design; however, tail plugs were purely ornamental and maybe plugs like these were favored by his mistress' clan. He glanced from the plug in his hands up at his mistress, and apparently the confusion was evident on his face.

"Press the button at the base of the tail," she told him. Frowning, Daka found the tiny button she meant and pushed it. There was a quiet hissing sound and the part of the plug which was to be inserted swelled in his hand until it was nearly as big around as his fist. The narrow shaft just above the fingered base remained the same size, just a hair thicker than his thumb.

"Inflatable," his mistress told him. "They will not come out, no matter what. Hold the button down and squeeze the bulb and it will deflate."

Daka greased the plugs and inserted them one at a time with care after greasing up the mares' bulging sphincters with his fingers. Their rings of muscle were surprisingly loose. They hardly seemed tight enough to keep from gapping open. The ponies ignored him as he pushed the rubbed shafts into them, ignored him until he hit the buttons to inflate their plugs. Then they grunted, bent over and spread their legs slightly to adjust to the pressure. Their rings bulged twice as much with the inflated plugs inserted. Once they were in he tugged on the tails to make sure the fit was snug enough to keep the plugs from ejecting, but as large as the plugs were he could hardly believe that might happen. The tails jutted up and back at a jaunty angle, their twelve-inch shafts braided leathyr around a spring steel core.

"I was told it was just under two miles from here," his mistress said. Daka climbed back into the cab and sat beside her. "Be aware," she told him. "We could have eyes on us at any time."

She flicked the reins. "Proud!" she called out. The mares broke into a high-stepping showy trot and turned north onto the narrower trail. Their breasts bounced wildly but in unison, and the ends of their tails bobbed in time as they pulled the carriage up and down gentle grass covered slopes.

After only a few minutes a sprawling estate came into view. Daka saw a host of low buildings, one and two stories tall, spread out over acres of land. The buildings were all made of wood, but were surrounded by a tall stone wall.

As the ponies pulled the carriage down a long gradual slope the estate buildings sank out of sight behind the wall. The level land around the wall was planted with crops. Daka could pick out lettuce, cabbage, and soy beans, plus several other crops he didn't recognize. They'd been climbing steadily for hours, and quite a few more varieties could survive in the hills than in the unforgiving heat and sand of the water station.

After the land leveled out the ponies still needed ten minutes to pull the carriage close to the big gate, high-stepping the whole way. Daka studied the twelve foot reinforced wall with interest but also glanced at the workers already toiling in the fields. The women wore widebrimmed hats to shade themselves and their high-heeled knee-high boots included kneepads for the hours they spent shuffling down the rows, weeding and tending. The harsh sun and the long hours of work each day had taken their toll on the laborers. They were all whipcord thin and burned brown by the sun, and must have been herded into the fields before dawn. They were all branded, which told him their status.

Two broadmares were hooked up to plows and were busily digging new rows into the earth. The women working the plows had a hard time keeping up with the huge ponies. Daka tried not to stare at them—he hadn't seen purebred broads in years and he'd forgotten how big they were. A crew boss kept everyone in their place and busy at work. She wore kneeboots and a hat also, but was the only woman wearing any sort of clothing out in the field, black leathyr chaps to protect her legs as she walked the rows. She carried a Reminder, a four-foot cane whip used to refocus a laborer's attentions. From her build (and brand) Daka guessed she'd been promoted out of the fields.

The twelve foot wall was grey and smooth along its entire length, except for the double wooden doors of the gate which sat astride the end of the gravel road. Two women appeared at the top corners of the gate as the carriage approached. Daka saw they carried lightning sticks just like the one his mistress had used and just for a second panicked. They wore chest plates and helmets and he could just see them pointing their sticks his way and vaporizing both the carriage and him.

With a flick his mistress halted the team a dozen feet from the towering wooden gate. She pulled back her hood and looked up at the guards so they could see her face.

"Identify yourself," a guard called out.

"Lady Koho-Sen of the Flower Clan," Daka's mistress called out. "Here by the personal invitation of your mistress."

"Clan Hetaerae welcomes Lady Koho-Sen of Flower Clan," the guard responded formally. "Lady Lena welcomes you." The guard gestured and the big wooden gate began to swing open toward the team.

"Remember, do not speak until spoken to, and keep your robe on unless directed otherwise," his mistress murmured to Daka.

When the two-foot-thick door had swung all the way open she drove the carriage into the compound and stopped. Daka looked around curiously. They were in a huge courtyard. Away from the gate the gravel road became cobblestone and led to a large building off to one side that had to be the stables. A gravel track ten feet wide ran along the inside of the wall but otherwise the grounds were covered in closely trimmed grass.

Two of Lady Lena's maids waited just inside the gate, elegantly robed in Clan Hetaerae's colors of purple and red.

"M'Lady, you grace us with your presence," one said. "All of the others have arrived, please come with us and we will show you to your room. You have time to wash up first if you so desire."

Lady Koho-Sen gracefully descended from the carriage and looked about. The wall around them was dotted with guards, standing on a walkway that ran along the inside of the wall halfway up. The massive gate was slowly swung shut behind the carriage, and a foot-thick crossbar was slid into place.

"Lady Lena apologizes for not greeting you herself but she is busy with arrangements," the maid said.

Daka's Mistress nodded. "The boy will stay with the team. Please show him to the stables, and inform the Stablemaster that he is an experienced pony-handler and should be put to work."

"Of course M'lady." They both bowed their heads at her, faces hidden inside their hoods. Daka could see nothing of them at all. Their faces were in shadow, their hands tucked inside voluminous sleeves, and the colorful robes brushed the ground as they stood.

One of the maids turned and led his Mistress toward the main house along a flagstone path. The other, who had yet to speak, turned and started down the cobblestone road. When, after she'd gone a dozen steps, Daka still hadn't stirred, she turned back to look at him from inside the shadowed hood.

Daka clucked at the team and they started forward after the robed woman. Their progress was slow; the woman was only taking six-inch steps, and Daka wondered if perhaps she was hobbled underneath the robe.

Eventually they neared the stables. It was a large wooden building to one side of the compound, solidly constructed but of simple design. The maid pulled her hands from her sleeves to slide open the stable door and Daka saw her wrists were cuffed in leathyr and connected by a short chain.

Daka stopped the team outside the door and climbed down from the carriage. The maid waited until he walked up and then turned and entered the building, removing her hood as she shuffle-stepped into the darkened interior. Daka waited at the doorway with the team and watched the maid approach a large blonde woman. The maid had dark brown hair twisted into a long braid that disappeared down the back of her robe. Daka watched the back of her head as she bent close to the blonde woman, who was mostly hidden behind a stall door. The blonde flicked her eyes in Daka's direction, then nodded. The maid bowed her head slightly, then turned and shuffled back toward Daka.

He stared curiously at the black leathyr binder she wore on her face, the like of which he'd never seen. Her tall, stiff collar rose up to cover her mouth and jaw, ending just beneath her nose. It was molded to the shape of her face, and a shiny zipper ran up the center of the collar, its tab pressed against the base of her nose. The small silver ring piercing her septum ran through the hole in the tab and kept the zipper from sliding down.

As she drew close she stared at him with big brown eyes, soft and beautiful. Beneath the half-mask her gaze was unreadable, and she passed him without making a sound. As she stepped into the morning light she pulled her hood over her head once more and stuffed her hands inside the baggy sleeves of her robe.

"So you're supposed to know your way around a mount?"

Daka turned back and found himself face to face with the big blonde. Her thick hair was in a ponytail that reached the middle of her back. Her round face was plain and unremarkable, but her eyes studied Daka carefully, looking him over head to toe with an expert gaze.

"Yes m'lady."

"Well, we'll see." She looked over his shoulder. "That's Lady Koho-Sen's team, right? They've got to be tired." She looked him over again, pursing her lips.

"I've got a full house in here," she said, "what with the meeting. I suppose I could use the help. Unhook 'em and bring them in," she directed. "You can feed and water them, at least."

"Yes milady."

"I'm the StableMistress," she scolded him. "It's not proper to refer to me as Milady. I am Uma Koi. Call me by my name or my title."

"Yes m—ma'am," Daka replied.

Uma was nearly as tall as he was, with a bigger frame – large and muscular, with abundant curves. She wore tight black leathyr chaps over high-heeled black boots. A black leathyr triangle covered her mound but bare flesh peeked all around it whenever she moved. Her waist was narrowed by a steel-reinforced leathyr corset. The high-rise corset rose above her large breasts, which were pushed up and together by smooth leathyr detachable cups.

As she turned and strode back into the stables Daka saw the stablemistress' bare muscular buttocks bisected by the narrow string of her g-string. He also noticed her left cheek was branded several times. First the clan mark of ownership, and then the brand beneath that signifying she'd been freed and was now a citizen. From the obvious power in her huge thighs Daka assumed she was a former mount. Who knew better how to tend to ponies than a former mount? She was perhaps twice his age, past her prime as a pony. Mounts were usually retired around age thirty-five, after twenty-plus years in the bit. Much beyond that and their strength and endurance dropped off precipitously.

Daka unhooked his Mistress' team and led them into the cool stables. The building smelled of sweat, leathyr, and PonyMix. There were stalls to either side as he led Lei into the center of the stables, where he found four separate washing stalls and a large open wash area, all with new appliances and in pristine condition. This was where the other ponies were gathered. Daka was a bit overwhelmed; he hadn't seen this many ponies together since two teams of eight heading in opposite directions had shown up at the water depot on the same day.

"Tether your team in that washing stall and then I'll show you where to take the carriage," Uma instructed him, nodding at a vacant stall. She was in the middle of washing the ponies. To his trained eye it appeared most of the other mounts had also just arrived and were still frisky from the run. A few were in stalls but at least half a dozen were lashed to a steel bar running down the center of the washing area, out of their leathyrs and still dripping from the hose.

The carriage went into a building attached to the back of the stables. The barn-like structure wasn't small but was crowded nonetheless with carriages. Daka only had a second to look them over but it was obvious they were all of the highest quality and latest designs.

Back in the washing stall he deftly stripped and scrubbed down Lei and their leathyrs. He'd washed ponies so many times it was like second nature to him, and he used the time to observe the StableMistress and the strange mounts.

Daka was pretty sure there were some ponies in the back of the stables. He'd heard movement back there, at least three or four ponies, and figured there had to be at least three times that many stationed at an estate this size. Besides them, and his own two charges, he counted ten other ponies. Four or five teams, he wasn't sure.

There were two strong young dark-skinned ponies, their buttocks unnaturally high and jutting. Their skin was coal black from the constant sun, their brands raised patterns on the smooth ebony flesh but not perceptibly darker.

Before him was perhaps the oldest mount he'd ever seen. Her skin was like aged leathyr, brown and crisscrossed with lines. However, most ponies he handled tended to wrinkle young in the harsh desert sun, so that made it hard to judge age. And with almost zero body fat even the oldest mounts' bodies were taut. Daka guessed she was at least two if not three times his age. Her hair was the biggest clue to her age—a short brushcut, liberally shot through with grey. Her body was as trim as any he'd seen, though; a narrow waist and washboard stomach flaring into powerful muscular buttocks and thighs. Her breasts were small and flat on her freckled brown chest, mostly nipple.

There was a team of four, all sun-bleached brunettes, unremarkable except for the fact that their ownership was indicated by black tattoos rather than brands.

What drew Daka's attention most was the apple-cheeked strawberry blonde pony. She was young—very young. If he'd had to judge her by her face alone he wouldn't have guessed she was even half his age, but her body told him a much different story. Of unremarkable height, she had the largest thighs he'd ever seen on any human. Front to back they were the thickest part of her body, each one as big around as Daka's waist. She also had the largest breasts he'd seen on a pony. Not the largest breasts he'd seen; the chunky wetnurse who'd pierced his organ had had teats larger than his head, but still these were much larger than any he'd ever seen on a pony.

Her skin was flushed a healthy pink across the top of her breasts, matching the red circles on her cheeks. Her breasts, meaty and pendulous, pointed down at a forty-five degree angle. She had hardly any pigment change between breast and nipple, which were big rubbery-looking things pierced with thick gold rings. She was frisky and shifting constantly from foot to foot. The nose between her legs was oversized and engorged with blood, so big Daka imagined it jiggled when she ran; the pony kept squeezing her thighs together but it was obvious she wanted more. She was alone in a washing stall, collar chained to a hook and still in her armbinder, dancing around like the floor was too hot for her feet. The problem was that it had only been a two hour run to Lady Lena's estate, and she was the oldest of a new high-performance genbred the royal genesplicers were justifiably proud of. A two-hour run in the cool air before dawn hadn't even been enough for her to break a sweat.

The pony's leathyrs had been washed and were thrown over the stall partition to dry. Daka studied their strange cut and finally decided the two leathyr straps on the front of the corset must go through the busty mount's nipple rings. Then her breasts could be tightly buckled down while she ran to keep them from flopping (the large breasts being an unforeseen side-effect of the in-utero hormone cascades).

The final two ponies looked like they'd arrived only minutes before. Uma was still removing their leathyrs. Daka had found it was always harder for him to discern age and conditioning on darkskinned mounts, and these last two were as black as midnight, but even so their physiques were arresting.

The two mares had long thick manes of shimmering black hair that reached to the middles of their backs. They were young, too; the longer Daka studied them, the more he was convinced they were younger than he, perhaps by as much as two or three years. Common sense told him they should be one-year-olds at most, but his frame of reference had been totally thrown off by this quick-maturing, "genbred" stock. These blackskinned mares didn't even look full-grown yet and here they were, pulling (what he assumed was) a royal's carriage.

Even though they hadn't yet reached mature size, their thighs were enormous. Black trunklike columns of muscle topped with high round buttocks that looked hard as stone. When they finished filling out Daka was sure their thighs would be even bigger than those of the chesty strawberry blonde, which seemed impossible.

The two young ponies had no breasts at all, and Daka wasn't convinced they ever would, even after they'd finished growing. They were obviously bred to run, and breasts were unnecessary. Their nipples were black on black, flat against their ribcages, which rippled with sheets of muscle. He didn't know what stock they came from—all he knew was that they were the finest specimens he'd ever seen. Their muscle shape and definition was spectacular, and they were obviously in exemplary condition.

The black leathyr mulierre straps were almost invisible against their skin. Uma undid the bluckle at the front of the corset and the tightly cinched strap fell into her hand. The palm-width straps went between the pony's legs and were used most often when training a pony. The tight strap stimulated them, distracted them from their work. After a few years their little noses were destined to become desensitized from the constant rubbing, and the trainers could remove the straps and work on perfecting the pony's form. If the strap wasn't used, frisky mares sometimes ran with their legs close together for stimulation, which encouraged poor form.

Uma removed the mulierre straps and the attached tailplugs, then went to work unlacing the tight corsets. The noses between the two mares' legs spring up. They were the largest Daka had ever seen, bigger than his thumb, hooded with dusky flesh. They were black except for their tips, which were light pink and shaped like the end of Daka's own organ.

These two mares were frisky as well and kept trying to clamp their thighs around Uma's. They snorted and huffed, teeth brilliantly white against the black rubber-coated steel bits. Uma cursed under her breath and smacked the friskier of the two hard on one buttock. It only encouraged her pelvic thrusts.

"They must have to run you two four hours a day just to keep you calm," Uma murmured. "Are you about done over there boy?" she said in exasperation. "I've got to strap these two down before they ruin my leathyrs." Her chaps were slimy where the mares had been humping her thighs.

"Yes ma'am." He hooked Lei to the wall and hurried over to help the StableMistress.

Daka pried the friskiest ebony pony off Uma's leg, sidestepped to avoid her gripping thighs, and hooked her collar ring to a hanging bar with a section of chain he found. He located a spreader bar which he locked around her ankles, then proceeded to undo her armbinder once she was immobilized.

Daka deftly unlaced the armbinder and before any feeling returned to the young mare's arms he'd hooked her wrist cuffs to the hanging bar.

Uma, who'd just managed to fit her troublesome charge with a spreader bar, was shocked to see how quickly Daka had immobilized the other mount.

"It seems like you do know your way around a mount," she told him as he cranked the hanging bar up until his mare was barely touching the floor. She stopped struggling so fiercely and watched him with flaring nostrils. He undid her corset, then removed her hoofboots, when Uma nodded that it was okay.

"None of the ladies should be leaving for at least a day, maybe as many as three," Uma told him.

He reattached the spreader bar after he'd pulled her boots off and then began washing the mare.

"Where did you learn your way around a pony?" Uma asked him as she lathered up her pony.

"I was a stablehand at a water depot before my Mistress bought me."

"Why don't you take off your robe, you're getting it all wet."

Daka paused slightly. It was what he'd normally do, but he had his orders. "No thank you ma'am, I'm fine."

They left the two ponies dripping in the stall and circled the seven hooked to the steel bar in the tiled open area. There was the team of four brunettes, the older silverhaired mare, and the other darkskinned duo. All of them had been stripped of their leathyrs and wore only their posture collars, rubber coated bits, and their leathyr cuffs, their wrists hooked together and wedged up behind their backs, as usual, between their shoulder blades. The mares were all on one side of the chest-high horizontal bar, bent over slightly. Their collar rings were clipped to the steel beam.

Uma went into a vacant stall and grabbed a long thick sheet of heavy foam padding, about a foot wide, with indentations in it. She slid it into place in front of the mares' feet and then with a crank began to lower the bar.

The mares bent lower and lower as Uma cranked, until finally they had to drop to their knees, and Daka saw that was what the indentations were for. They cupped and protected the mares' knees shoulder width apart.

Uma cranked and cranked until the bar dropped closer to the floor. The mares' heads were forced ever lower, until the bar was four inches off the floor. Their breasts were pressed firmly into their thighs, and their rears had started to rise up a bit.

"How often did you have to flush mounts?" Uma asked him, locking the bar into position. Daka looked at the row of rumps before him, pointing outward, buttocks lightly resting on heels.

"Several times a week, usually," Daka answered. Hardly any of the ponies passing through the water depot sported tailplugs, but PonyMix, as nutritious as it was, had a drawback—it created hard, sometimes painfully so, stools. Flushing working ponies was a pretty common practice, but it was a necessity with any mount that regularly wore a tailplug to avoid dangerously impacted colons.

"Good, so you've had some experience." She went into a darkened corner and wheeled a large metal box into view. It was chest-high and over two feet square, with a confusing array of buttons and rubber hoses.

"This is an automatic flushing machine," Uma told him. "Brand new. You can clean out four mounts at once with this, and it doesn't require any cleanup. No more squatting over a waste bucket to empty them out. It's real simple to use."

She grabbed one of the hoses and showed it to Daka. Its rounded metal nozzle had fluid vents in the side, and an odd rubber collar similar to an hourglass where the metal nozzle joined the rubber hose.

Uma greased up the nozzle and the anus of the first mare in line. She pushed the thumb-sized nozzle into the pony until just the end of the hourglass-shaped rubber collar was visible.

"That's the automatic tension collar," she told Daka. "Watch." She pushed a blue button above where the hose entered the machine and with a muted hiss the collar filled with air, expanding to twice its original diameter. The pony gave a little start.

"Don't pay any attention to that," Uma said, waving a hand at the startled pony. "The collar will automatically inflate to whatever pressure is necessary to effect a good seal. Could be bigger than that, could be smaller. Now watch." She hit a green button next, beside the blue button. The metal box began to hum.

"It'll spend about ten minutes pumping a special solution into her," she told Daka. "Again, it stops when it senses a certain level of back pressure. To help the mare accommodate more of the solution you can massage its belly, like this," she demonstrated for Daka. "When it's full, the machine waits another ten minutes or so. The solution it pumps in dissolves the waste material into a thick liquid, which is then pumped out of the pony. That takes another ten minutes, followed by half a dozen or so rinsing flushes. When the machine is done this yellow light right here above the hose will light up."

"Okay," Daka said. What an improvement! It was so much simpler and less messy than the traditional method.

"The ponies might get a bit unruly when the machine starts flushing them out," Daka told him. "That's normal. I've tried the machine myself, and it's quite a sensation. Now, I wasn't you to hook up the other three like I showed you while I get them some Mix."

"Yes ma'am," he said a bit uneasily. He wasn't sure if he remembered all the steps, but he didn't want to say anything, she'd think he was stupid.

Much to his relief he got the next three ponies in line hooked up without incident. The first one was groaning a little around her bit so he massaged her stomach. It felt a little distended, but he wasn't sure.

Uma set bowls of PonyMix and water before the ponies and undid their bits. They all began eating voraciously, the flushing machine apparently not distracting the four mounts at all.

"When they're done you have to clean off the nozzles and empty out the collection tank and refill the solution reservoir," Uma told him. "I'll show you how. But other than these three, none of the other mares were on the road long enough to get impacted. Unless yours need to be flushed out?"

"No, they're fine," he told her.

Uma nodded. "Okay, then, while that group is eating, let's bring off these two ebonies over here or there'll be no end of trouble."

"Ma'am?"

"Bring them off," she said. "They're too frisky." She looked at his confused expression. "Haven't you ever masturbated a high-spirited mare to get it to relax or fall asleep?"

"No ma'am. By the time most teams got to our water depot they were so hot and tired they fell asleep when I was washing them."

"All right. I guess I should teach you this, you're going to need to learn the skill. D'you play around at all with any of the local girls?" she asked him. "It's not too different."

"No ma'am."

"Never?" She didn't seem to believe him.

"Our depot was in the middle of the Wash, ma'am. There was just me and my master."

"Oh really?" she said, expressing more interest. "What about ponies? You ever play around with some of them?"

"No ma'am! No way, I would've gotten into so much trouble."

Uma looked him over carefully, trying to discern his shape under the robe.

"Hmmm. I don't think I've come a across a . . . well, have to save that for later," she said to herself. "Here, help me," she told him.

Daka lowered the hanging bar for the first young black pony. Uma told him to keep going until the bar was on the floor and the girl had sat down. Uma unhooked the mare's ankles from the spreader bar one by one and rehooked them to the hanging bar. The mare's ankles were far apart, much wider than her shoulders. When Daka began raising the bar again, the chain clanking on the pulley, the mare's limbs lifted off the floor as one.

Daka kept at it, cranking the bar up, watching as the pony's body slowly tilted up and then lifted off the floor. Uma had him raise the pony until her pelvis was at chest level, then they did the same to the second pony.

The ponies were suspended in the air, wrists and ankles firmly attached to the bar. Their arms went straight up, thighs out at forty-five degree angles with only a slight bend at the knee.

"This is the proper way to do this," Uma said, nodding at the two darkskinned ponies gently swinging back and forth. Their big noses, tipped with pink, were even more prominent in that position.

"I'm going to use a glove, just because I don't want my skin to get all pruny, but you should use bare fingers until you get the hang of it," Uma told him, pulling on a black rubber glove. She lubed up her first two fingers and slid them into her pony's slit.

"Grease up your fingers and do what I do," Uma told him. "Two fingers is best, although on those four at the bar over there you'll only be able to use one, if that. Clan Infibula," she explained. "All sewn up. Even if the mare is really loose you shouldn't use more than three."

"Now, with the tips of your fingers, the pads, feel around on the inside of her, on the front. Several inches in you should feel some sort of bulge, like a knot of scar tissue. It may be slightly rougher in texture. Do you feel it?"

"I don't think so." Daka had cleaned out plenty of mares before but this was totally different. He rubbed his fingers around inside the pony, looking for the spot. She was warm and wet, and tight against his fingers. The outsides of her folds were black, while the insides were bright pink. Up close her little nose looked even more like a smaller version of his organ, stiffly upright and pointing up at his face. Her folds rose up to shroud its shaft, but its pink head was bare.

"You might have to press against the inside of her pubic bone to find it," Uma told him. "Don't be in such a hurry, this takes time. Watch your mount for her reactions, that's the best signal." Daka's pony bucked against his hand as his fingertips rubbed over a knotted bump.

"There you go, that's it," Uma encouraged him. "Now begin stroking it with your fingers. Back and forth, in circles, whatever you think works best. Watch your mare for her reaction and adjust your technique accordingly. There, that's it," Uma said as she saw the thigh of his pony flexing, lifting her pelvis. "See, she likes that. Hear her groaning and sighing? That's good."

The pony was trying to push herself into his hand but had almost no leverage. Daka kept massaging the little knot of flesh he'd found and watched the pony. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing faster, and he could feel her internal muscles squeezing at his fingers. He was surprised; he hadn't even known ponies had muscles inside there.

Daka's pony was beginning to grunt and groan and she was bending her knees, trying to bring her bottom up closer to him and his fingers.

"Now," Uma instructed him, "get a little lube or spit on your thumb and start rubbing her clit." She demonstrated by using her greased thumb to rub the pink-tipped nose between her pony's thighs.

"Clit?" Daka repeated. He'd never heard the word before.

"Be very gentle here," Uma advised him. "This is the most sensitive area of a female. Some women can barely stand to have it touched, but ponies usually aren't that delicate, especially those trained with a strap. You should start off slow and gently and work up from there. That said, these little girls just ran for four hours with a mulierre strap so tight I could barely unbuckle it. They'd probably enjoy it if you spanked their clits with a leathyr belt."

Uma bent into the pony before her and began massaging her in earnest. She dug her fingers deep inside the girl's ebony flesh, rubbing her secret spot, while roughly flipping her clit side to side with her thumb. Her pony moaned and gasped around her bit, bucking and swinging in the air even with Uma's free hand wrapped around her big thigh for control. The pony moaned and mewled, twitched and clenched, as Uma relentlessly played with her sensitive flesh. After only a few minutes the pony reached a crescendo, crying out and stiffening in the air. Uma's hand worked furiously inside her, rubbing and rubbing. Daka saw a lot of clear fluid running down Uma's arm and dripping from her elbow onto the floor.

"When they're not dehydrated, a lot of them will squirt on you," Uma told him, her fingers slowing to s stop inside the panting pony. She slowly withdrew them and peeled off the wet glove. "You do yours now." She moved close and watched as Daka renewed his efforts.

"Concentrate between her legs right now," Uma told him. "But be aware that a lot of mares like it if you tug and pinch their nipples. No, don't worry about it yet, this is your first time. Work on getting the technique."

Daka massaged her sweet spot with the flats of his fingers, trying side to side, up and down, and rubbing in circles. The pony was breathing heavily, almost panting, which he took as a good sign. He tried to keep his thumb moving against her clit but wasn't really coordinated enough to do a good job.

"On your own Mistress' ponies, ones you're familiar with," Uma told him, "you can suck on their clit. It works just as well, and doesn't take as much coordination. But don't do it on strange mounts," she told him. "You don't know how clean they might be." She reached up between his pony's legs and began pinching her small black nipples. The pony's moans grew louder, and drool ran from the corners of her mouth around her bit.

"That's it, give it to her," Uma urged him on. "She likes it, look at her buck. She's right on the edge, look at the veins in her neck." Uma used both hands to pinch the pony's nipples simultaneously.

"Oooh, watch it! Stay with her. Grab her around the leg if she starts to buck like that. You hear how wet she is? She's going to bite through that bit. Get—" The pony stiffened and rose up six inches as her legs bent with the force of her climax. High moaning sobs bled past her bit as Daka clutched her trembling thighs against him and massaged her hot wet flesh. The palm of his hand filled with clear fluid as her channel clenched around his fingers, and clenched, and the knot inside her that he'd been rubbing so vigorously shrank away.

"Good job," Uma commended him. "Looks like you've got a knack for it. We'll leave these two up here for now, let 'em relax."

Daka gently withdrew his figners from the pony and massaged his aching forearm. Clear fluid dripped from her now gaping slit and splashed against his sandaled feet. Her insides were a creamy, vibrant pink, turning to a deeper red inside.

The pony's washboard stomach moved up and down as her panting slowed. In her navel was a small clear puddle, but he didn't know if it was her drool, his sweat, or her squirt juice that had somehow ended up there.

"So, what do you think?" Uma asked him. Daka turned toward her, still massaging his forearm, but when he raised his head to respond he saw she wasn't looking at him. Instead, she was looking down, at the front of his robe. Daka looked down also, just now realizing he was hard as a rock.

"That's quite a tool you've got there, boy," Uma observed with raised eyebrows.

"I—" was all he had time to say before she'd stepped forward and grabbed it through the rough fabric.

"Oh yes," she purred, a smile growing on her face, "quite a tool."

"I'm not supposed to take off my robe," Daka blurted out.

Uma squeezed and pumped his thick shaft once. "Really?" she said distractedly. "I don't think that'll be a problem."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN-RENDEZVOUS

S'Leah sat on the wooden bench and waited. Her benefactor had told her her target would be easy to spot, of the royal bloodline, and would be taking a stagecoach this day north to Greenwood.

When she'd arrived in IronHeart the day before she'd quickly learned that all the stagecoaches arrived at and departed from the coach terminal, a small white clapboard building near the center of town. The road between IronHeart and Greenwood was busy enough for there to be regularly scheduled coaches, three a day in each direction. However, there was no way for her to know which coach her target would be on.

S'Leah learned the coach schedule within minutes of arriving in town early in the evening the day before. After securing a room for the night at a small inn she wandered her way through town, thinking she might come across her target by chance.

IronHeart was a small rural town where most of the residents seemed to know one another. They tended to have small, neat houses on large plots, and just about everybody tilled their own gardens, some small, some massive. There was a cooperative in town where they sold their produce.

Their main street was short, lined with small businesses mostly, with only one saloon. The townspeople seemed a friendly sort, dressed mostly in expensive cotton or other light fabrics. S'Leah quickly found out a lot of the residents grew cotton, and this was one of the few places in the West where it wasn't astronomically expensive.

She saw only a few slaves, and only a handful of men, all old. It was quite a shock when she came across a group of twenty or so young men, barely more than boys, exiting a restaurant. They were loud and boisterous and guarded by at least half a dozen armed chaperones. All the females on the street stopped and stared at the young men as they were herded into their hotel in the growing dusk.

"Wouldn't you just love to jump in the middle of that group," a woman close to S'Leah said. She wore a dreamy look on her face. "All that fertile seed, just waiting to get out. I bet half of them are still virgins."

A nearby middleaged woman nodded. "I'm wet just thinking about it," she said.

"Those guards have the whole second floor sealed off and guarded," another woman announced. "And now after seeing them I'm going to have to go home and choose between my limp seventy-year-old handyman and a doorknob."

"I heard that." Laughter echoed up and down the street as the women drifted off in different directions. S'Leah learned later the young men were on their way to one of the inseminariums to the northwest, doing their part for the survival of the kingdom.

S'Leah checked the lobby of both the town's inns, the saloon, and a small restaurant. No sign of anybody that might have the royal blood in their veins.

The few local whores in the saloon were such poor specimens it took all of S'Leah's willpower not to show them everything they were doing wrong. The dozen or so seedless men inside looked to be miners on their way to or from JoTown. Why the local women outside on the walk, complaining, didn't come in here and slut themselves for free S'Leah didn't know. Sure, these miners were undoubtedly sterile, but so were the women probably, and a penis was a penis.

She, however, needed to get up early and stay focused, so the miners never got to know what they missed. At seven a.m. sharp she was inside the terminal watching to see who got on the eight o'clock northbound coach. It would have helped if she'd had a description of her target, or at least knew the sex of the person, but that apparently wasn't going to happen.

Four people got on the eight o'clock coach bound for Greenwood. One scruffy miner type, one portly middleaged man she'd seen working at the local produce co-op, and two women.

The older woman was in her fifties and very expensively dressed. S'Leah drifted her direction, wondering if she could be the one. However, as soon as she opened her mouth S'Leah knew it was a false alarm. Between her twang and dubious grammar there was no way she could ever be a member of the royal line. With her was a chunky, large-breasted woman in a faded buttonfront dress. Her face was round and plain, and it was hard to guess her age from the lack of expression, but S'Leah guessed she was in her thirties. The older woman introduced her as her new housemaid.

"Winifred Guilder, an old friend of mine, just died," the woman told the portly man. "Apparently in her will she gave me her housemaid Nellie here."

"Winifred Guilder?" the man mused. "I believe I met her a few times. Charming woman. I'm Burt Denby, with the Co-Op."

"I recognize you Mr. Denby." The matron sighed. "I really don't know what I'll do with her. I already have two maids and a very capable little bedwarmer."

The first stagecoach of the day rolled up, pulled by a mismatched team of eight. They'd come from the east the day before and overnighted in the stable. Now they looked fresh, ready for the trip north. Three blacks, four tans, and one skittish young waif who seemed fresh to the bit.

The matron continued. "I don't need another mouth to feed. I'm afraid Winifred, bless her soul, spoiled her. Just look how big she is."

S'Leah eyed the two women. The matron was as big if not bigger than the young housemaid.

"Ma'am," the young miner spoke for the first time. "I know you don't know me, but I just finished my six month stint at the JoTown mine. With my stake from it and what I've saved up from other jobs I was going to buy a small house in Greenwood and go to work at the gravel pit. I've got a position all lined up. Now, I don't know how much you want for her, but I am going to have some cash left over, and I prefer a woman with some chest."

"Why, young man! What did you say your name was?"

"Arthur, ma'am. Arthur Douglas."

"Well, Mr. Douglas, I would hate to sell to someone when I don't even know if she as any skills beyond cleaning an old woman's tiny house, and I know after six months working hard in JoTown your first concern isn't going to be how well she cleans. My goodness, I wouldn't even know what to charge. The last girl I bought was Ariel, my bedwarmer, and she was only three at the time."

"I'm familiar with the going rates," Burt Denby interjected. "If you're truly interested in doing business with this gentleman."

The stagecoach driver jumped down and opened the door for them. The conversation continued as they climbed inside. Throughout the exchange Nellie never spoke or changed expression, but as soon as the former miner expressed an interest in buying her she kept her eyes on him.

"It's a six hour ride to Greenwood," Douglas pointed out as they found their seats. He was next to Denby and across from the chunky housemaid. "There's no rush."

"Plenty of time for her to demonstrate any skills apart from cleaning she might have," Denby felt obliged to point out, with a pointed look at the matron. She raised an eyebrow, then pursed her lips and took the time to study the miner carefully.

"How old are you, Mr. Douglas?" she asked. "If you don't mind my asking?"

"Twenty-seven, ma'am."

"Twenty seven," she mused, giving him a very pointed look head to toe. "And very fit, from your time in the mine, I imagine. Six hours? Perhaps we can come to some sort of an arrangement, you seem well mannered."

The coach driver finished strapping the last of the luggage to the roof and jumped down. When he closed the door the remainder of the conversation was lost to S'Leah, who'd returned to her spot on the bench. But she saw the Matron reach up and undo the knot holding the neck of her white cotton blouse closed, revealing ample cleavage packed into a wire reinforced white cotton bra. And as the driver climbed up to his seat and picked up the reins, before, with a jerk, the team started off, S'Leah saw the matron crook a finger at the young miner across the cabin from her, while the housemaid watched with a smile on her face. S'Leah shook her head in distaste and leaned back on the bench.

"Old Lottie thinks Nellie's slow. That ain't it. It's just that she's had nothing but old fish to eat twice a day for ten years. That boy's going to get a bargain," a voice announced.

S'Leah looked over to see the ticketseller, a wizened old man with only half his teeth, grinning widely at her. "How long you goin' wait?" he asked. "Maybe your friend don't show up."

She stood up. "I'll be back for the noon stage," she told him.

When S'Leah's target walked into the station there was no doubt in anyone's mind that she was of the royal bloodline. She strode into the station as if she owned it, looking at nothing, speaking to no one, with a haughty air and an aura of unapproachability.

She was pale and slender, with short spiky jet black hair brushed down to frame her face. She wore an odd top that was half short robe and half jacket. The oddly stiff white robe covered her to mid-thigh and –forearm. It clung tight to her torso, but gaped open several inches, just barely covering her small breasts. Her white skirt ballooned oddly and reached to just above her knees.

The royal stopped in the center of the small waiting area and looked around disinterestedly. An aide, leading two pets by the leash, followed her into the building.

The aide was very pretty, with long brown hair drawn up into a bun atop her head. Her heart-shaped face was heavily accented with makeup—cheeks rouged, lips a deep glossy crimson, lashes too long and thick to be natural. A black rubber ballgag was wedged deep into her mouth, exposing brilliant rows of perfect teeth.

A stiff black corset was laced tight around her middle, reducing her waist to enviable dimensions. The corset forced her to thrust out her small breasts with their tiny pink nipples, and accentuated the curve of her hips. The knee-length shiny black rubber skirt she wore was so tight she couldn't move her knees more than an inch apart—she shuffled more than walked toward the ticket counter in her black five inch toeboots. As she passed S'leah saw that the skirt was backless, a large oval exposing the aide's creamy ass to the air. The opening was barely large enough, the rubber pushing her soft cheeks together.

She shuffled to the ticket window, pets in tow, and used sign language to tell the clerk how many tickets she needed. While she paid with bills from inside her corset S'Leah studied the two pets she had leashed.

Both women were outfitted identically, one in blue, one in green. Their heads were encased in rubber hoods, obviously custom molded to their heads without a gap or wrinkle. The rubber hugged their skulls so tightly S'Leah wondered if they were bald underneath, but quickly dismissed the idea.

The women were totally blind inside the hoods, which had no openings whatsoever for their eyes. There seemed to be nostril holes in the hoods, but S'Leah couldn't be sure. Over the hood each woman was fitted with a cylinder gag, ventilated in the center with a small hole.

At first glance both pets looked very busty, but S'Leah quickly realized they were wearing one-piece restrainer jackets with internal sleeves, and what she'd thought were large breasts were just the women's arms crossed across their chests and drawn tight. The garment's sleeves were internal so S'Leah had to assume the sleeves ended in mittens that were locked together behind the women's backs. The thick rubber sheaths were zipped up the back, the zipper locked to their stiff leathyr collars. The hoods were also attached to the collars, each of which had a chrome ring in front where the leash was attached.

The pets' one piece jackets were cut high on the hip, making their bare legs appear even longer than they were. The restrainers left their buttocks bare, split and spread slightly by a thick strip of rubber. Each wore ankle-high toe boots that matched the others' jacket in color. The boots were the tallest S'leah had ever seen.

After purchasing the tickets the aide shuffle-stepped to within a few feet of her Mistress, to the rear, pets in tow. They responded immediately to the subtlest tugs on the leash. They moved silently, just the tik-tok of their boots and the occasional squeak of rubber.

S'Leah stood and walked past them, hearing the faintest huff of their breathing through the perforated gags.

"Get tired of waitin', girlie?" The wizened ticketseller squinted up at her. He eyed her tailored, traditionally cut two-piece suit she'd bought the night before, on a hunch. It was what a refined eastern businesswoman would wear, someone who dealt with numbers or cash. It was charcoal grey, with a tapered three button jacket over a white blouse with ruffled collar and pleated slacks. The clerk had sold her the matching black leathyr pumps at a discount. The tightly tailored suit showed off her plentiful chest and athletic build but gave her the air of respectability she'd been looking for. Her battered bag went into a used but serviceable leathyr valise that was much more appropriate.

"One," was all she said. He gave her a wink and started making out the ticket as she handed over more of her shrinking was of bills.

Why this royal didn't have her own team and coach S'Leah didn't know. It didn't look like she was enjoying the thought of riding on public transportation, but maybe this one always looked bored and slightly annoyed.

In a few minutes the noon coach pulled up outside. It was pulled by a matched team of eight, not identical but close enough in looks for S'Leah to assume they were sisters. Working mares, not for show. Their faces were blocky and unattractive, topped by coarse manes of black hair. Small, flat breasts, wide hips, and legs chunky with muscle but bulging with unsightly veins. The driver was a wiry, spunky little brunette quite a bit younger than S'Leah. She hopped down and opened the carriage door.

"Baggage?" she asked, as S'Leah drew close. S'Leah held up her valise as an answer and climbed inside.

"I have three trunks on the other side of the building," the royal spoke for the first time. Her voice was unremarkable, with a slight eastern twang. The driver nodded, holding the door open as the royal climbed delicately into the carriage. She sat facing S'Leah. Then the driver ran off for the trunks.

The aide led the two pets to the doorway. With gentle touches she had them enter one at a time, first tapping their calves to let them know they would have to step up, then touching their heads so they would bend over to fit through the doorway. The aide got them arranged on the far side of the carriage, kneeling on the floor facing one another, then stepped outside to help the driver with the trunks. Each was big enough for S'Leah to curl up and fall asleep in, and appeared heavy. They were on a wheeled cart that the driver pushed up outside the door. The aide pointed out a button on the handle. When the driver pushed it the cart began rising on telescoping supports to the level of the coach's roof. The driver clambered up and with a series of loud thumps slid the trunks over and then tied them down. While she was doing this the aide entered the coach and knelt on the floor near the door. Soon the driver had the load secured, hopped down to shut the door, then scrambled up to her perch. With a "Hyaah!" they were off.

The slender woman across from S'Leah stared out the window with a bored expression on her face while her three companions silently swayed in place as the coach rumbled along the northern road. S'Leah set her valise on the seat beside her and valiantly tried to engage the woman in conversation.

"Travel this route often?" was met with the briefest of uninterested glances.

"Are you having some trouble with your own team or do you normally travel by coach?" didn't even get a response, she just kept staring out the window. S'Leah glanced down at the aide, who was staring at her curiously. She looked around the interior, and focused on the matched set kneeling on the floor.

"Your pets are shapely," S'Leah said slowly, "but I don't see what good they are, all bound up like that. Especially traveling."

The royal slowly turned her head and regarded this woman in the expensive suit. Her gaze dropped to S'Leah's feet and worked upward slowly, finally returning to S'Leah's face.

"They are bound," she said finally, choosing her words, "for my amusement."

"Oh," S'Leah said innocently. "So they can't see at all. Can they hear us?"

The woman rolled her eyes and went back to looking out the window.

"Because I would think they can hear us pretty clearly," S'Leah went on, watching the pets. "Now, their arms are obviously bound, and they can't see, but—"

"They are quadruple plugged," the royal said in exasperation. "Dildos front and back, built into the restrainer. Gagged. Nasal tubing. And liquid rubber poured into their ears. They can't hear a thing."

All of them swayed as the coach rolled over rough ground. S'Leah watched the two pets kneeling on the floor. They were kneeling with their buttocks resting on the heels of their toe boots, backs straight and chins up. The enclosed space was beginning to fill with the scent of leathyr and rubber, which always brought a flood of memories to S'Leah of her time in the stables.

"Well," S'Leah said finally, "I guess they're at your mercy. It's too bad they're all covered up. Can't really do anything but look."

"What would you do?" The royal for the first time expressed a hint of interest.

S'Leah eyed the pets, running her gaze up and down their covered forms, then shrugged nonchalantly and stared out the window at the passing scrubland.

"Does it matter?" she said offhandedly, and would say no more.

Not quite three hours into the trip, near the halfway point, the coach stopped for ten minutes. The driver jumped down and began watering her mares, one at a time, unhooking their bits and letting them suck on the end of a squeeze bottle.

The aide opened the coach door and carefully led the pets out into the sun. S'Leah followed, stopping to stretch beside the open door. She watched the aide lead the two long-legged pets off the road into the stunted scrub. The pets moved into wide-legged stances facing away from the road, and the aide reached down between their legs, one at a time, and removed the plugs from the restrainers' built-in catheters.

Thus uncorked, thick streams of urine erupted from the rubberclad mounds of the two pets, and they visibly relaxed. The rushing streams continued at length, and S'Leah surmised that the pets' bladders had over time become stretched through deliberate overfilling until their capacities were far in excess of what was normal. Finally the sparkling streams faded to trickles, then drips, then stopped. The aide bent over and reinserted the plugs into the catheter openings, then led the pets a short distance away and started them doing squats to keep their legs toned.

S'Leah wandered over to the two dark circles in the dirt. She turned sideways to the coach, unbuttoned the front of her trousers, and fished out her penis. With an effort she forced out a thin stream, which darkened another circle of dirt. She shook off, rebuttoned, then, taking off her dressy jacket, wandered around the scrubby shoulder of the road. With just a thin white blouse on her back the desert heat was barely noticeable.

When the driver was done watering her mounts she rebitted them, checked their leathyrs for cracks, then climbed back into her seat. S'Leah was the last into the coach, retaking her place on the bench across from the royal. The aide and her pets were in their former places on the floor and the team huffed into motion.

"You should have mentioned you were extra-ordinary," the royal said idly. S'Leah knew she'd been watching out the coach window as she'd relieved herself.

"It rarely comes up in idle conversation," S'Leah said with a smile. "M'Lady."

The royal opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, changing her mind. "I'm sure. We've never been formally introduced. I'm Princess Sucette Souillon, of Clan Mastix, fourteenth in line."

S'Leah bowed her head. "I'm honored."

The Princess' eyes dipped quickly to S'Leah's crotch, so quick she almost missed it. She licked her lips.

"Feel free to use my pets for your entertainment," the Princess said. "They have naught else to do."

S'Leah bowed her head again. "A most generous offer. However, I feel I must restrain myself, as I don't know what your highness would consider…inappropriate," S'Leah said. Her words intrigued Souillon, which had been their intent.

The Princess snapped her fingers, and the aide opened her small bag and presented it to her mistress. From it the Princess withdrew a length of slender rubber tubing. She fit one end of the black tube into the hole in one of her pet's gags, where it fit snugly. Then, undoing snaps between her legs—S'Leah still couldn't figure out what kind of garment it was—the Princess reached her hand inside holding the free end of the rubber tube. After a few seconds she removed her hand, but the tube stayed in place, disappearing up between her legs. The Princess leaned back, and spread her arms along the top of the bench back.

"They are fifth generation pets, born to the leash and cage," she said. "They know nothing but to serve. You would be hard pressed to do anything to them that I would consider inappropriate."

S'Leah could hear the pet swallowing, and watched her throat muscles move up and down. After a while that ceased, and the Princess reached between her spread thighs to remove the tubing. She lifted it up high, to make sure no urine remained in the rubber tubing, then unplugged it from her pet's mouthpiece and handed it to her aide. The aide deftly coiled the black tubing and replaced it in the small purse.

The Princess then undid the rest of the snaps of the garment between her legs, so that it looked like a skirt between the cuffs around her slender thighs, and pulled the other pet close. She undid this one's gag and removed it, revealing a flexible, ventilated eight-inch-long black rubber phallus, shiny with saliva. With a heel she nudged the blind, rubber-covered head forward, and S'Leah saw the pet licking her lips. Then its head was pushed inside the white rubber between the Princess' legs.

The Princess then quickly snapped closed her white rubber pseudo-skirt, this time around her pets' neck, enclosing her head. The Princess slid forward on the bench seat and spread her legs wider. Doubly hooded now in rubber, the pet was busily licking away at her owner's folds. Her head was a vague shape under the white rubber, which ballooned slightly.

"Can she breathe under there?" S'Leah asked. The pet's head could be seen moving back and forth as she licked dutifully, but the white rubber was snapped tightly around her neck. She couldn't have withdrawn if she'd wanted to.

The Princess idly watched the bump that was her pet's head angling to and fro. "Apparently," she said after some deliberation. The other rubberclad pet knelt blindly beside the first, and the Princess idly stroked the smooth black dome of her head.

The aide watched all this activity without expression, only glancing once at S'Leah to see her reaction. She remained on her knees, leaning forward, and S'Leah watched her small breasts shake gently as the coach rolled ever on. Her eyes traveled past the aide's breasts, down her corset, to her bare heart-shaped ass sticking out invitingly. The backless skirt was barely more than a black rubber apron tied at the bottom.

"And the third?" S'Leah inquired.

The Princess glanced over and saw she was asking about the aid, and laughed. "She begs the inappropriate."

"Move forward," S'Leah commanded.

The ballgag contorted her face, and made her expressions hard to read, but the aide seemed genuinely pleased at this turn of events. She scooted forward, staying on her knees in the middle of the floor. S'Leah climbed down and knelt behind her.

The black rubber skirt was tight, almost painfully so. The oval hole exposing the aide's buttocks was just barely large enough; even with her kneeling down and bent over the puckered rosebud of her anus was just visible above the rubber's edge. Her sex below it was hidden from view, but S'Leah wasn't upset. In fact, this might work out better for her.

She undid the front of her trousers, already erect. The aide now looked back, and pushed her ass out with an eager gleam in her eye. The Princess looked on, a hint of amusement in her face, as her pet continued to toil, hidden among the folds of rubber between her legs.

S'Leah coated the head and shaft of her cock with spit, then gobbed again onto her fingertips. The aide's wrinkled rosebud was surprisingly soft and loose. S'Leah smeared spit over the outside, then probed her with a finger. It went in without resistance, as did a second. S'Leah removed her fingers and replaced them with her cockhead. She pushed forward and slid in easily, all the way to the base. The woman on all fours before her groaned and pushed backward as she was entered.

"Doesn't quite seem to be a virgin, does she," S'Leah remarked. The aide was warm and soft around her shaft, and she wiggled a little in anticipation.

"Not exactly tight?" the Princess asked rhetorically. "As talented as you'll find it, that backside has seen quite a few visitors, large and small. My herbalist has developed a diet for all my playthings," she remarked. "You'll find it getting slipprier in there as you go."

She was right. As S'Leah pumped slowly back and forth, getting a feel for the aide and her ass, her cock began moving more freely. It was as if she was lubed from the inside. S'Leah had never heard of such a thing, but supposed the diet was rich in oils.

The more she thrust, the looser the aide got, and the wetter her channel became. It felt good, but reminded S'Leah of why she was there—to make such an impression upon the Princess that she was invited along. She stopped pumping and withdrew her cock.

"With her gaping backside, she seems to be enjoying this more than I am," S'Lead announced. She sat on her heels behind the aide and penetrated her with three fingers. They slid in easily, and were soon slick. S'Leah added a fourth finger, then with hardly a pause began working her entire fist into the kneeling woman.

The aide stiffened, grunting, surprised more than anything else. Her ring of muscle clenched at S'Leah's twisting hand, but the aide never moved or leaned away, she was too well trained. With little effort S'Leah soon had her entire right hand in the aide up to the wrist. Her hand wasn't that big, and soon the aide began to relax. After just a few minutes of twisting and stroking the aide was groaning with pleasure again. Her ass had loosened even more, and once S'Leah's fist and wrist were properly slicked up, they began to move easier. S'Leah soon had the aide bucking and thrusting herself back onto her fist, which she began to pull out completely before roughly ramming it back in.

The aide lowered herself onto her elbows and hung her head as S'Leah began to explore her. She twisted her hand this way and that, pushing her arm ever further into the woman. The Princess watched silently, slouched back in the seat, a bemused expression on her face. She had one leg bent back, and pressed her heel against the back of her pets' head toiling unseen between her thighs.

The aide seemed to be infinitely receptive, but when S'Leah could glide her entire forearm into her, the aide's rubbery ring of muscle stretched to the full circumference of her elbow, she figured that was enough.

S'Leah rose up onto her knees again as she pulled her arm back until just her hand was inside the woman's ass. Her anus was bright red and shiny with lube, inside ridged and fluted like the petals of a flower. S'Leah stabbed her organ deep into the aide, grasped it with her hand still inside the woman, and began jacking herself off.

The aide cried out in pleasure, the sound buried in her ballgag, as S'Leah's efforts shook her body.

"Oh, yes, very nice," the Princess purred. She licked her lips and stared.

S'Leah widened her stance and gripped the aide's corset for leverage as she pumped her hand around her thrusting shaft. The aide was beside herself, drool running out around her gag, forehead pressed to the floor. It was only a few minutes before S'Leah grunted and came, spurting her seed deep into the woman's open bowel.

She ground to a stop, sweating slightly, hunched over the aide's rear end. She suspected that she'd ruined the knees of her new suit, but from the look of approval and arousal on the Princess' face she figured it was a successful trade.

S'Leah backed out of the woman still on all fours and regarded the slimy mess that was her hand and organ. "I don't suppose there's a cloth about," she said.

"No need," the Princess told her. "Just pop that gag out and you'll be gratefully licked clean. And more if you're up for it," she added. "That was interesting. I've never seen anything quite like it. What did you say your plans were after we arrive in Greenwood?"

S'Leah smiled inwardly and sat back, watching the huge tunnel into the aide slowly shrinking in diameter.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN—SISTERS OF THE CIRCLE

Daka's Mistress, the Lady Koho-Sen, was accorded an elegant suite all her own, and assigned a personal handmaiden for the duration of her stay, however long that would be.

She would have preferred to have her robes cleaned and pressed before the meeting, but there was no time for it. She did, however, allow herself the luxury of a sponge bath while the handmaiden did her best to brush the dirt from her robes. As with all of Lady Lena's servants the handmaiden was cross-trained in the arts of pleasure, had Koho-Sen been so inclined. However, the meeting was more important than her won personal discomfort at having gone days without release. Reinserting the large, formal plug that indicated her clan was scant comfort.

Due to the important, and somewhat sensitive, nature of the meeting, the invited had agreed to attend alone, leaving all aides, pets, or others in their personal quarters, if they'd brought them at all. Koho-Sen had had the longest to travel, and had left late. She'd opted to travel alone, which had proved fortunate for Daka—he'd had a place to sit.

The handmaiden helped her into her robes after her skin had air dried. Her hands casually brushed the sides of Lady Koho-Sen's breasts as she fastened the robe around her, clear sign she was eager to be of more service. The Lady had no time for that, though, and pretended not to notice.

She kept the hood back to better show off her glossy, freshly brushed hair, and went barefoot, as was customary. She followed the handmaiden through a maze of narrow hallways toward the meeting room. The Lady Lena's residence was constructed so as to slow and confuse an invading enemy force—the corridors were narrow, to eliminate any advantage they might have in numbers.

Subdued lighting lit the narrow wood and paperboard paneled corridors. The paperboard sections were painted in colorful historical murals. Candlestuffed statua in small alcoves provided additional light.

To an uneducated observer the house might have seemed silent and empty. Koho-Sen, however, knew the Lady Lena's estate was a bustling hive of activity, rendered quiet by liberal use of soundproofing materials during construction. The walls were much more substantial than they appeared.

Lady Koho-Sen adopted a placid mein, her face blank, unreadable mask, which concealed the churning of her heart. So much was happening, so fast, most of which would affect the Clans and the bloodline, for better or worse. Outwardly, however, she remained calm, even as she seethed at having to walk so slowly—all of the Lady Lena's household staff, including the handmaidens, were hobbled, forcing them to adopt a slow, shuffling stride. En route they passed two other errand runners, dressed in the blue accented robes of the house, shuffling along quickly. The women bowed as they passed but said nothing as they were gagged.

After another series of turns her handmaiden slid open a door panel to reveal a spacious antechamber. In it against one wall was a row of kneeling handmaidens. They rose and bowed as she entered, and her own led her across the room to a wide door. Statua in alcoves at either end were the only feature of the bare room, lit by recessed fixtures near the ceiling.

The wide closed door was framed by two armed overmuscled geldings, who nodded respectfully at her but didn't bow—it would have required them to take their eyes off the room a dereliction of duty. Their shiny black armor looked like the carapaces of giant beetles, standing upright.

Koho-Sen counted the waiting handmaidens and guessed, correctly, that she was the last to arrive. That thought put a tiny crease in her forehead, which she quickly erased. She nodded and one of the guards slid open the heavy soundproofed door, revealing the meeting room beyond. Lady Koho-Sen glided in silently, hearing the door slide closed behind her.

One by one her Bloodsisters turned and bowed in her direction. The meeting room was designed in a circle, with overstuffed cushions for seats on the floor in a ring, evenly spaced around a low thick-topped polished oak table. The rest had not yet taken their positions around the table, and had been standing in small groups, talking, waiting for the last to arrive.

Now that the group was complete they began the formal greetings. Each went to another, in no order, greeted them by their formal name and bowed, to show respect, honor, and courtesy, and then they kissed, a sign of their love and bond of sisters of the royal blood.

There was the Lady Lena, pale and slender as a reed in formal blue robe, the color of her clan. Her hair was as straight and pale as cornsilk, and hung to her waist. Her house was known to all as one of the finest specialized schools in the realm, producing the most exquisitely skilled assayan and handmaidens one could ever wish to own. Her trainers were now working with specimens genbred from tenth generation stock, crafted on site by her own gifted geneticists. Her staff also trained small numbers of ponies, as quality mounts this far from the royal court were hard to acquire even for nobility.

The Lady Piscine, of Clan Ophidi, was there in her green robes. Her whipcord body made the Lady Lena look thickwaisted. Lady Koho-Sen tried not to show her shock—obviously the Lady Piscine had her own gene-weavers working hard on her own body. She'd long strived to warp her body closer to that of her clan's namesake, and obviously had experienced recent successes. Her head was now noticeably wedge-shaped, her skin much darker, and when they kissed Koho-Sen found her sister's tongue was now forked and long enough to stroke the back of her throat. What changes had been wrought under her robe Koho-Sen could only guess. A waste of resources, Lady Koho-Sen thought, but they were Lady Piscine's resources to do with as she pleased.

Lady Roba Haigu-Sha, arguably the furthest from the throne of those in the room, both by her blood and, some said, crude behavior, wore the brown robes of Clan Cynophae. She was a plain, unremarkable woman in appearance, with short brown hair. Her chosen name and family history, however, belied her plain exterior. In fact, Koho-sen was nearly certain she'd chosen the name Donkey Wife as an undeniable symbol that she had no aspirations toward the throne, although the descriptor wasn't truly accurate—all the donkeys had died long before any of the women in the room were born.

The dark-eyed Lady Main of Clan Maritate was as quiet as usual, giving her but a quick sweet kiss. Her purple robes shimmered in the light from the one wide window, which looked to be at least thirty feet off the ground. The wall outside, of course, would be impossible to scale.

In her pearl white robes Lady Hirondelle of Clan Bukkake was radiant. Her skin was lightly tan and nearly glowed, it was so perfect. Her brown ringlets, frosted with blonde, framed a pretty but unremarkable face. Her hair was shorter than the last time they'd met, barely covering the nape of her neck. She had a soft body, with large round breasts, but was shapely, not fat.

Lady Rosetta, as usual, appeared irritated and impatient with the formalities, although she performed them flawlessly. Her black hair was in a long braid running to the center of her back. She wore the silver and tan of Clan Infibula.

"Sisters," Lady Lena said finally when the greetings were done, motioning them to their cushions. Each was color coded, and Koho-Sen found Lady Hirondelle on her left and Lady Piscine on her right. The floor was sunken underneath the table, and instead of sitting crosslegged she found legs could hang over the edge. A small platform was there for her feet, and leaning back, found the second vertical pillow behind her was properly supportive.

More formalities were now called for, as each in turn spoke of their clan and its births, deaths, and fortunes in general. Lady Koho-Sen learned little she didn't already know, most of which was unimportant. However, each woman had a disturbingly similar tale to tell, of organized raiding parties intent on stealing slaves and other property, and rumors of a new challenge to the bloodline.

Lady Hirondelle had heard no such rumors, but her clan had been the hardest hit by the raiding parties.

"They spend little time going after my ponies or pets," she told her sisters, "as you would expect. Instead they raid my clinics and kidnap my boys. Once, when a returning hunting party surprised them as they were making away with half a dozen seed-bearers, rather than give them up they killed them, and then themselves." Clan Bukkake operated several inseminariums in the North-South Territory, all far north of Lady Lena's lands.

"We've had to triple the guards, and it's affected our success rate. Nervous squirters make for skittish seed, or so they say. I can only suspect it has something to do with a challenge to the bloodline claim, as you say."

They all nodded, wondering what was in their future. The Lady Piscine shifted in her seat, easing a twinge in her knee, and suddenly the front of her robe began to move. A squirming shape rose up inside the green folds of her robe, twisting here and there. The Lady looked down at it with annoyance.

"Lady Piscine!" Lady Lena scolded her. "I specifically requested that we leave all handmaidens, aides, pets, and playthings , outside the meeting room, so there would be no distractions. It was agreed to." She pointed at the wrist-thick coils that were twisting inside Piscine's robes. "Have you tired of your promise, or is there a problem?"

Lady Piscine bowed her head in shame and embarrassment. "My apologies, sisters. I forgot it was with me."

"Can you calm your toy enough to continue, or do you need to break the circle to remove it from the room?"

"The circle will remain unbroken," she murmured, red-faced. She bent her head to the undulating coils and whispered, so quietly none could hear, then tapped it once with a fingertip.

The coils swirled anew, but this time heading downward. Lady Piscine canted sideways slightly as she lifted a leg, then resettled herself on the cushions again when the coils had disappeared. Only one familiar with her could have read the expression on her face as the snaking coils returned to their resting place.

"Lady Koho-Sen, you were next," Lady Lena told her.

"I would prefer to go last, if it pleases my sisters," she said slowly. There was no objection, so Lady Piscine began speaking, grateful for the chance to so quickly take the others' minds off her faux pas. With her lands deep in the southeast, she'd had no trouble with raiders, but had heard innumerable rumors about the impending bloodline challenge.

"But no one seems to know from whence they originate," she finished. "However, they are far too numerous and consistent for me to discount, whatever my desires."

Finally, when all others had had their say, it was Lady Koho-Sen of Clan Anomeatia's turn. She spoke of her clan's fortunes, but only in generalities, as it wasn't important.

"We too have had experience with these raiding parties," she told the circle. "Small, well-equipped, fast moving, they attack without warning. We have suffered only two raids," she said, "but, I'm sorry to say, our defense was nigh ineffectual. Patrols have been increased, and alertness is up, but I, as do we all, have many holdings that physically are nearly impossible to secure properly.

The women around the table nodded, worried looks on their faces.

"As to the rumors, prior to my leaving I had heard nothing new to you," she told them. "However," she raised her voice slightly, "my coach was attacked last night on the way here."

"Attacked?" "By who?" "What happened?" "Where?" The chorus of voices subsided quickly and they waited.

"An hour or so past sunset, last night, on the west road just this side of the Wash," she told them. "It was a Berserker-Shrike."

"What?"

"Impossible. None have been seen in years, and never this far north," Lady Main said.

"That is true," she admitted. "But there it was."

"No one's ever survived an attack," Lady Lena pointed out to her. "That is, with all their limbs intact."

"I had warning that it was coming, and had a lightning rod ready."

"How could you know it was coming?" Lady Piscine asked.

"At night?" Lady Hirondelle added.

"That is another story in itself," Lady Koho-Sen told them. She took a deep breath, then announced, "I think I've located the Lost Prince."

Stunned silence greeted her pronouncement. The sisters, for once, had nothing to say.

Lady Lena cleared her throat. "Lady Koho…." she began, but didn't know what else to say.

"Are you sure?" Lady Main asked suspiciously.

Lady Koho shook her head. "Sure? No. But he had the Mark, and everything else about him is right."

"But what of the Proof? He cannot be the Prince without the altering issue, according to the legend."

"I don't know," she admitted. "There was no one but me there when I found him. If I had given him the Test, and he was the one, I would have been useless at this meeting. And with events as rushed as they have been, I have had no other opportunity to try his issue on one of my pets or handmaidens." She wanted no one, not even her sisters, to suspect the Lost Prince might be close. There was no way to predict their actions, and she feared at least one of them might put their own fortunes and the fortunes of their clan above that of the realm.

"Surely we would have heard of him before," Lady Roba said, a tad unsure.

"For a number of reasons, he has not yet had a chance to lay with a woman," Lady Koho said, "else I'm sure we would have heard of him by now, if he is the One."

"Just as the legend is written," Lady Rosetta said.

"Where is this supposed Prince," Lady Main demanded. "We need to know, and we need to know quickly."

"Safe," was all she would say. "And you are correct, we do need to act swiftly on this. Because of the gathering storm around the bloodline, if naught else. But I am wary."

"Why?"

"I was too far north to be attacked by a wandering, wild Berserker," she said. "Which means it had to've been sent after me. And no one knew where I was going but the people in this room, and perhaps those threatless peasants I ran into along the way who could see with their own eyes which direction I was headed."

"Lady Koho! That is a serious charge," Lady Lena told her.

"I make no charges," she demurred. "I simply make an observation. Do you deny that there could be a person in one of your camps who might have spoken of this meeting or your departure out of turn? That is all it would have taken, if indeed there is a mind behind these raids and rumors."

That was a large bite, and they sat there for a while in silence, chewing on it.

"This is very worrisome," Lady Lena said. "I need to think on this. Come, it is midday already. Let us eat, and relax for a while before continuing. Lady Piscine, will you give the blessing?"

They arose and retired into an adjoining chamber, also guarded, where a grand buffet had been laid out. Handmaidens were called in, and the ladies lay relaxed on cushioned divans as they were fed and pleasured by the Lady Lena's skilled help.

Any questions the sisters might have had about whether the disturbance had been caused by a plaything or the Lady Piscine herself, perhaps some new appendage that she didn't quite have control of, were answered when she reclined on a futon to eat. The eight foot anaconda emerged glistening from her robes and curled up on her stomach while she fed it shredded chicken and beef. Its skinny forked tongue continually tested the air.

Lady Main lay half on her side on a divan, being fed by one handmaiden with a tray of food while another massaged her breasts through the open neck of her cotton robe. A white cotton undershirt was all she wore beneath the robe, and it was sheer and thin as gauze. A handmaiden had led in several jido adepts with their shorn heads, some of them very young, and one now had her head buried between the Lady Main's thighs. Glossy purple folds covered her down to her shoulderblades as she lay on her stomach at the end of the divan.

"Your trainers should be commended," the Lady told her host in-between morsels of food. "This one could touch her ears with her tongue if she do desired, I do believe," she said, indicating the prone adept.

"Your praise is gratefully acknowledged, and will be passed on," the Lady Lena said with a nod.

Lady Roba Haigu-Sha had no use for the handmaidens or the adepts, and preferred to feed herself. She was provided with a clean bowl of water and a lemon scented cloth to clean up, and when she asked, was directed to the appropriate anteroom.

Formal robes were not designed for convenience, ever. She quickly unwrapped hers and hung it on the wooden peg, then pulled down her loose silk undershorts. She lowered her backside into the oval hole, which was raised a foot or so off the floor. In the brightly lit space below it she could see the collection bowl.

The edges of the oval hole were padded, so she could sink her backside down into it comfortably. It wrapped around her lower back and her thighs, keeping her upright while she relieved herself. When she was finished she head the scrape of the bowl being removed, then felt the soft cloth as she was wiped clean by the attendant. The cloth was followed by a thorough tonguing, for the utmost in cleanliness, then she was gently blown dry. Warm hands on her buttocks helped her to stand up, but when she looked down all she saw was a fresh bowl. The old bowl, or rather its contents, would, she was certain, eventually make it to the fields outside.

The cloth wipe was a nice touch, if a little extravagant, what with the cost of cotton, and she didn't bother with it in her household. Her clan, like all the others, had its own share of women useless but for their obedient tongues, and she'd heard it only took a few months for a new toilet attendant to get used to the task. Perhaps it was just an extra courtesy the Lady Lena afforded her guests.

No business was discussed during the break—it would have been bad form. And while most of the Ladies availed themselves of the services of a handmaiden or adept, they did not touch each other. The circle was still unbroken, spiritually if not physically, and touching was not allowed until the ceremonial joining, the kanyu , at the close of the formal meeting.

The time came to resume the discussion, and they filed back into the meeting room and took their place in the circle.

"We will, I assume, be discussing matters of import, concerning history and legend. In my house, for other reasons, I happen to have a historian from the royal court. Shall I ask her to join us?"

The women assented and Lady Lena sent a handmaiden for the historian. She returned a short time later with a tiny, wizened old woman in the grey robes of an academic. She had straight hair in a short bowl cut, once pure black but now grey and white. Thin rimmed glasses perched on the end of her nose and she peered through them at the assembled women as she shuffled into the room.

The assembled all nodded at their learned guest, who asked for a chair in a squeaky voice.

"I'm too old to be sitting on the floor," she said. "My hips complain."

A chair was found for her, and she perched above them, hands clasped in her lap. She was named Setsuya Matsue, but was addressed Sempai Nodo, Elder Throat.

Her presence in the house reminded Koho-Sen that Lady Lena's residence was more a small city than a large house. Besides her and her daughters, and the one seedless son, there was the training staff that schooled the resident courtesans and ponies until they were skilled enough to be sold off. There was Lady Lena's own stablehands and ponies, and the rest of her household staff—cooks, cleaners, innumerable handmaidens, guards, and the invisibles, such as the toilet attendants. There were the laborers toiling in the fields, and their wardens, plus the gene weavers and their assistants in the low building in back.

The main house dwarfed the other buildings, which were laid out in an open-ended circle around a garden and pony track. Several of the buildings went deep underground, and were much larger than they appeared. When the fieldworkers came in at sunset, and the gates were closed, the walls held over five hundred souls in the leanest of times.

"Tell us of the legend of the Lost Prince," Lady Lena spoke to the historian.

"The Lost Prince, well, now that is a story," the old woman said with a smile. "And it starts long before any of us were born. You do remember the history of the bloodline, as you have been taught, don't you. Where it begins?"

They nodded. Their line began in fire, the day the fire filled the earth and sky, and the world that was perished. Five of ten died in an instant, and another three of ten died from the heat sickness that still plagued the wasteland south of the Wash.

"So eight of ten were gone from this earth within a week's time, through some folly of immense magnitude, the reason of which has been lost in time. What followed the fire, though, was worse, as the tales tell it. Germs of evil design were loosed upon the world somehow, that killed in horrible ways, both quick and slow. Wave after wave circled the globe, killing ever more, until ninety-nine of a hundred were gone.

"When the waves of death finally stopped, the written histories of that time tell us, and the survivors began to gather together, they found they were alike in more ways than just the fact they were still somehow alive. When they had time for such things in their savaged, ravaged world, the women who were left found they shared a love for each other as well as for men. Not only that, but the fires in their loins burned immeasurably brighter than those who didn't survive the fires and plagues. Most felt this was due to some unknown chemical of the blood or gene in the brain that kept them immune from the evil germs, but there was no way for them to do more than guess. The joy they felt in merely surviving they shared with each other, and they accepted no boundaries for their passions. These traits that somehow helped spare our ancestors a grisly death have been passed down almost without exception to subsequent generations, to this day.

The men fared much worse. The germs took them in much greater numbers, so that they are outnumbered this day ten to one. And, as we all know, while the airborne death might not have killed them, it killed their seed. Barely two men in a hundred bear fruitful seed this day. One woman in ten is fertile, a much better number, but still troubling, which is why the bloodline has for generations run the Inseminariums. The future of our realm is too important to be left to chance." The women all nodded at this, and glanced at Lady Hirondelle, who was in charge of several of the breeding facilities.

"How many years the survivors milled around, picking up the pieces, trying hard just to stay alive—and not always succeeding, mind you—is lost to history. But within that first generation, a woman arose to lead the survivors. Who she was before the fires and germs no record shows, but when she began to plan and organize, people saw her wisdom and followed. She was, of course Queen Fine, the very first of our bloodline, and the savior of our peoples.

"Her wisdom was so great that soon she was asked to lead, a role that at first she did not want. Eventually she relented, the story goes, and took the title Queen. By the time she passed on, and her daughter, Queen Jeanna the younger, began rule, people had joined together and began rebuilding what is now the royal city.

"As you know, the waves of fire and airborne death killed all animals larger than dogs. No machines would work, and there were no beasts of burden to work the land when the survivors finally began to plant again. Legend has it that a certain percentage of those survivors, realizing it was in the common good, and having no useful skills other than size or strength, selflessly volunteered themselves as human beasts of burden. The descendants of these women, of course, are the ponies of today. This is the story we tell children, yes?" The women in the circle nodded. "As you informed Ladies well know, seldom is life so simple, and so soon after the near end of the world times were harsh. These women were put into the bit against their will for the most part. Queen Jeanna the Second legalized slavery early in her rule, seeing no other way to accomplish the tasks that lay before her and her people in the wasteland that our country had become, and after a brief resistance a caste system very similar to what we have today was put into place. During the reign of her daughter, Queen Virginia the Chaste, the second generation of ponies, these now born to the bit, began to do their part, and the kingdom began, finally, to grow.

"It was Queen Fatimah—"

"The Sore and Wet," Lady Roba interjected. The historian paused, and grew a small smile.

"Yes, she was called that," she admitted, "although it was never part of her official title. While not the most free-spirited of our queens, she was perhaps the most open about her predilection for rough and frequent play. As for nicknames, Queen Slavia was known as the Merciless. It is her we have to thank for the creation of statua, and fetishettes, and the standardization of pony training. And then there's the infamous Queen Mirabelle."

"The Hollow," Lady Roba said.

The historian nodded. "But back to Queen Fatimah. You know she was on a trip between territories with her young husband Errall and her infant son. The son, Michael, was the first true son of the line—both the Queen and her husband were fertile, a first in seven generations. He was destined for the throne as our first King, but the traveling party was attacked in the high desert by bandits. The guards were killed, as was Errall. The bandits then made off with the Queen and the other females in the party. After enduring several days of … indignities, the Queen attempted to escape and was killed. Two weeks after that, a rescue party finally caught up with the bandits, all barren men raised in Wash. The bandits were killed and the Queen's ponies and handmaidens were returned to the palace. Of the infant son, however, there was no sign. His body was never found, and no one remembered seeing him after the attack, although the women spent most of their time on their backs in the wagons."

"The queen was survived by two nieces, Annabelle and Victoria. Succession wasn't as clear as you might have been led to believe, but Victoria was the eldest, and favored by the court, so she was crowned. Her progeny have held the throne for the last ten generations. You, my Lady Main," she pointed, "you are a direct descndant of Annabelle, are you not?"

"Yes."

"And by that curt answer I can see that all the hurts have not healed, even at this late date. Well, that brings us to the missing child of Queen Fatimah. The legend says that he lived, and was raised by a nomad tribe. And that he bore a son, and he a son, and that to this day there is a pureblood prince somewhere in the territory."

"What of the Proof?" demanded Lady Main. The Sempai held up her hand.

"Legend has it that the men of this line have the shield of the house of Fatimah on their shoulder. It is a pattern few outside the court would recognize today, a six-pointed star over a scimitar, inside a circle. And in the legend there is also a proof," she acknowledged, nodding to the Lady Main. "It is said that the seed of these men makes women weak playthings, with no mind of their own. How that could be, scientifically, I could not guess, but stories persist of the power of Errall's seed. How any female that ate his seed would immediately fall sway to him. Ponygirls, handmaidens, even Queen Fatimah, turned into mindless things with naught but an unquenchable burning between their legs for him. This Lost Prince is to have such seed, according to the legend."

"What make you of the legend?" Lady Lena asked her. The historian regarded her closely.

"We speak seriously now?" All the women seated before her nodded.

"It bothers me that the boy, alive or dead, was never found," Nodo said. "However, the wilds are unforgiving, and a dog or fox could easily have made away with his body before the rescuers passed.

"But this country is a large and empty place. His line could have survived without attracting notice, even if the stories about his seed were true. He could be the leader of a large nomad tribe, his seed keeping all the women close to him. Which is why I or my assistants visit the royal inseminariums several times a year. A boy, or man, of this bloodline, would have to be fertile to fit the legend. All males have their seed tested for life as soon as they're old enough to squirt—or rather, they're supposed to, but as I said before our realm is still a large and empty place. Those whose seed has life are sent to do their duty at the inseminariums, and it is there that their seed is eaten under controlled conditions just on the off chance the legend is perhaps more than fancy. Over the years I myself have tasted more seed than most assayan, and while I've acquired a tongue for it, I've yet to eat any that tasted good, much less made me swoon." That got quite a few smiles.

"Do I believe the legend is true? I hope so, I dearly hope so. It would heal an old rift in our family. But I have no faith."

"Thank you, Sempai, for your words and wisdom," Lena told her. The Sempai nodded. "When do you leave us?"

"Two days, perhaps. I'm researching the bloodlines of ponies, as you know, and still need to do some more tests on your young ones. I was also informed that the team Lady Roba haigu-Sha arrived with is genbred from original fifteenth-generation stock, and newly matured?" This got a nod. "They will require much study—with your permission, m'lady."

"Of course."

"Now, if you will excuse us." Lady Lena rose and escorted the historian to the door. She returned, thoughtful, to the circle.

"The test needs to be performed with all haste," Lady Hirondelle announced, looking to Lady Koho. The others agreed.

"Let us finish the rest of our scheduled business," the Lady Koho told them. "Nothing can be done with him until we are done here anyway. My watchers will not follow any orders that don't come directly from my mouth. A few more days, after ten generations, won't make a difference."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"Uma?"

She looked up as her name was called out, hand still wrapped around Daka's big shaft inside his robe. A muscular blonde man stood before them in leather chaps and vest.

"What is it, Ranyo?" she said with some exasperation. He was one of her stablehands, and not the brightest.

Ranyo nodded at Daka. "Is he the one with Lady Koho-Sen?"

"Yes." She released her hold on Daka's organ, the moment past.

"I'm to take him to the smithy and get him ringed," Ranyo told her.

"Who says?"

"Lady Koho told Lady Lena, who told a handmaiden, who found me out back exercising Midnight and Strawberry."

"All right. Well, you heard him, boy, get to the smithy. But return here straightaway. I want to try to exercise all these thoroughbreds today before they get too frisky."

"Yes Ma'am."

Daka obediently followed Ranyo through the stable to the exercise yard in back. Two ponies, one so darkskinned she was nearly purple and one a light-skinned, freckled redhead, pulled a small, heavily weighted coach around a circular track at a slow jog. The ruts where the wheels ran were extra deep to keep the coach on path.

Ranyo led him out a gate in the fence to a small wood building. Smoke billowed from its steel chimney. Inside, bent over a small anvil, working on a trailer hitch, was a stocky bear of a woman. Her graying hair hung in a thick ponytail down her bare, sweaty back. She wore roughskinned blacksmith's chaps and a thick canvass apron. Her skin was sooty and smudged and streaked with sweat. Her fat breasts hung down to her waist and bulged the apron, making her look obese, but Daka saw it was mostly muscle.

"Nina!" Ranyo called out. The big woman looked up, raising the magnifying goggles from her eyes so she could see them. "This one needs a ring," he told her.

"I'm busy," she told him gruffly.

"Supposed to be done immediately, by order of the Lady," Ranyo said warningly.

"Everything's always a rush," she grumbled, but straightened up and took off the goggles. "Well, come here, boy," she growled. "I can't do it from across the room. Sit there," she told him, when he'd obeyed. "And pull up that robe."

Daka sat in the angle-backed wooden chair and put his feet in the metal pads on the floor before it. Nina began spinning a crank on the back of the chair, and the flat metal footpads rose and separated. His knees spread wide and came back almost to his chest. Nina pulled up a stool and tugged on rubber gloves. As she sat on the stool Daka heard clanking.

"Well, let's see what we have here," she murmured. "Hey, you dunce, he's already got a ring," she called to Ranyo. She grabbed the metal tag and read it uninterestedly.

"You're supposed to put in a guiche, and hook 'em together," Ranyo said. "Seamless. Also supposed to get rid of some tag, whatever that means."

"Okay, this will take but a minute."

With a pair of large snips Nina deftly removed his former owner's tag from the ring through his glans, then examined the ring in her thick fingers. She grunted.

"Pull up your package, boy," she told him. He didn't know what she meant, so she pulled his cock and scrotum up out of the way and pressed them to his mound. "Like that," she directed.

She pulled over a two-foot-square box on wheels that was filled with drawers from bottom to top. From different drawers she removed pliers, a small but thick gold ring, a thick needle, and a steel hypodermic. She grabbed the hypodermic first.

'You're not going to feel anything down here for a while," she told him, stabbing the hypo into the skin below his scrotum. She injected the fluid it contained and counted to sixty. Daka felt a growing numbness, which soon reached from his navel, down between his legs and up to his tailbone, and a few inches down each thigh.

Nina grabbed the thick needle and pinched a thick fold of skin just below his scrotum. Daka couldn't feel a thing as he watched her push the needle through the fold. She took the open-ended gold ring, barely large enough to go around the tip of her pinkie, and pushed it against the base of the needle. The needle came out, leaving the ring prettily piercing his reddish-brown skin. The ring lay sideways between his thighs. The hole in his flesh didn't bleed at all.

"Okay, let go," Nina said. "Let go." She tapped his hands, and he let go of his genitals. His scrotum fell forward and covered the new ring, and Nina nodded.

Grabbing the ring vertically piercing the head of his cock, Nina curled it under to meet the new horizontal ring. When the two overlapped, she took the small pliers and squeezed the small ring shut. Daka's cock was now ringed to his own body, its head half-buried beneath his balls.

"Now," Nina said seriously, "don't move." Taking a small grey cylinder that just barely fit in her palm, she pushed his flesh to the side, revealing the two interlocking rings. With a click a spout of blue flame erupted from the tank. Nina adjusted it until the flame was but an inch long, then passed it back and forth along the seam on his small ring. When the metal had melted just enough she flicked off the torch and blindly reached behind her for an urn. She poured the water in it over Daka's groin, then let go of his flesh and sat back. Daka looked down at his reorganized genitalia in confusion, wondering just why this had been done to him. Had he angered his Mistress? The order had come from her, or so it'd been said.

Nina cranked down his feet and helped him stand. With the numbness in his groin his legs felt funny, but he thought he could walk. When he looked down all he could see now was his shaft curving down and out of sight beneath his balls, which bulged out to either side.

"Gonna have to piss sittin' down," Nina said, "but you're none the worse for wear." She stood up, undoing the apron strap behind her back, the pulled it off over her head. Underneath she wore nothing but the rough-sided chaps, and Daka was amazed at the amount of steel between her legs and hanging from her nipples. She had multiple rings stuffed through the big holes in the bases of her nipples, and there was so much glinting steel between her legs Daka couldn't see any flesh. She dipped the urn into a nearby barrel and doused her sweat-streaked body with water.

"You got time for a poke?" Ranyo asked her, leaning against a table. His eyes were on her big gleaming, dripping breasts. Nina looked over at him with a scowl.

"I don't have time for you, boy, I've got work until sunset and then some. Go park your stick in one of those ponies you like so much."

The coach rolled through green hills for almost an hour before they entered Greenwood. Much of the green was soybeans or corn in ordered fields, but coarse grass covered the bare hills. S'Leah was amazed just how green the land became just a few days north of the Wash.

The fields were an acre or three on average, with a small homestead on it or nearby. S'Leah could see small figures in the distance, working the rows, as the coach rolled on.

The station was a pretty white-sided building on the edge of town. Greenwood stretched away to the east, small houses and low one- or two-story businesses, the street wide and layered with gravel.

They pulled up beside the station creaking and clanking, and she stretched her stiff muscles. The padding on the seat left a lot to be desired, and her cheeks were both numb and sore at the same time. The Princess finally sat up on her bench as the coach began to slow, and started undoing the snaps around her pet's neck. Her head had been buried between the Princess' thighs for hours, but the Princess had never given any sign that she was receiving pleasure. The pet's head had continued to move the whole time, so S'Leah knew she hadn't passed out from lack of air. When her head came into view the rubber covering her face was slimy and glazed. Her gag was replaced immediately.

"You are joining me," the Princess said. "I'm having a gala tomorrow night, and would enjoy it if you were there. I'm sure you'll have a good time."

"It would be my honor," S'Leah said, bowing slightly.

The driver hopped down and opened the door for them, and S'Leah followed the Princess out. The early evening air was cool on their faces, and smelled of cut grass and flowers.

Parked beside the coach they'd arrived in was the most spectacular carriage had seen since she'd left the Royal City. It was huge, nearly twice the size of the one they'd been traveling in. Intricate carvings decorated its trim, done by the hand of a master. All the metal, the knobs and hinges and bolts, were polished to a mirror finish. The coach itself was lacquered an off-white, with burgundy trim. S'Leah peeked into a window and saw three wide padded leathyr benches, two facing forward, one back, with small fixed endtables.

The coach was pulled by a matched team of ten, as large a team outside a draughtwagon S'Leah had ever seen. They were all blondes, most alike enough that she guessed they were two or three sets of siblings or clones. These were show ponies, not true working mounts. Their burgundy leathyrs were without a crack and shone from a recent oiling. Their builds, while obviously the result of hi-gen breeding, were slender, at least by pony standards (anywhere but the Wash, where stringy mounts were the norm). There was not a hair out of place in their thick blonde manes, which hung to the small of their backs. Cheeks, lips, and eyes were tinted with makeup to improve their already considerable looks. S'Leah wondered how it would hold up under heavy sweating. The nipples of their breasts, which were medium in size (which meant for ponies they were large) and perfectly shaped, were pierced by shiny steel rings, from which depended tiny silver bells which tinkled merrily when they moved.

"Do you like my coach?" the Princess asked her, wandering around the rear of the other.

"It's magnificent," S'Leah admitted. "Why weren't you on it instead of the public one?"

"It was north on another errand when I went south," she said. "And it was dearly missed, but we all have to make sacrifices sometimes."

The Princess' coach had not one but two drivers, dressed in burgundy cotton finery. They both were redheads with long ponytails and freckles. S'Leah guessed they were chosen more because their coloring matched the coach than any other reason. They bowed deeply to the Princess, who ignored them, then scurried off. One rechecked the pony harnesses, while the other moved to get her Mistress' trunks off the top of the other coach.

The telescoping platform that had been used to raise the big trunks to the roof was apparently lighter than it looked, and had been folded and stored beside the trunks. It was now brought down, unfolded, and telescoped back up to roof level. Two drivers, the dusty one from the trip in and the Princess' dandy in cotton finery wrestled the trunks one at a time to the raised platform, lowered it, rolled it to the lower coach, and raised it again to slide the trunks off into the other roofrack.

When they were done the redhead tipped the driver of the public coach, who thanked her and then headed into the station. While the trunks were being moved the aide had led the two pets by leash into the station to relieve themselves. By the time the drivers were done with the heavy trunks the aide had loaded the pets into the coach and climbed in behind them.

S'Leah was taking the opportunity to stretch her legs, and had been examining the giant carriage and the Princess' team. As big as the coach was, it appeared to roll easily, probably on bearinged axles that had been trued. With ten ponies, even ten show ponies on the lead, it would be an easy pull.

S'Leah was perplexed at the ponies' seeming lack of genitalia, until she remembered they were property of the Clan Infibula. The dainty brand marking the flats of their right buttocks was unfamiliar, probably the Princess' own seal.

S'Leah climbed into the cabin after the Princess and took a seat next to her on the front-most forward facing bench. The leathyr was soft and fragrant, a dramatic changed from their last accommodation. A bench faced them, and another was to their rear. The aide sat demurely on the rear bench, hands in her lap, but of the pets there was no sign.

The coach began to roll without even the slightest jerk, and past the window S'Leah saw the station slide by as the rolled northwards once more. The Princess relaxed and leaned back on the seat, looking over at S'Leah.

"Where are your pets?" S'Leah asked, looking around once again. With a toe the Princess lifted the edge of the seat facing them, and s'Leah saw it concealed a large compartment, large enough to accommodate a full grown man. Both the pets were wedged in there on their sides, head to tail, with no room to spare.

The Princess let the lid drop, and smiled at S'Leah, who had no doubt that there was another compartment, empty, under her, and the Princess could have put the second pet in it if she'd so wished.

There was a knock on the roof and after a short pause a hatch opened upward and one of the drivers climbed down on cleverly concealed footholds. She stepped from the seat onto the floor and turned to bow at them.

"M'Lady, would you like a drink, or perhaps some fresh fruit?" she asked. S'Leah saw the boxy endtables were actually coolers, and was again surprised and impressed at the unabashed display of wealth and means.

"Yes, but I think we can help ourselves," the Princess told her. "Do not bother us for the rest of the evening."

"Yes, M'Lady," the liveried redhead said, and climbed back out the hatch. The Princess stood up and threw a large bolt, securing the hatch so the driver couldn't open it again. She went around the spacious cabin and began closing all the slatted blinds over the windows, shutting out the failing orange light.

"We"ll stop in the morning sometime, whenever I see fit," the Princess told her. "In the afternoon we'll arrive at the Clan's estate."

The Princess began removing her clothes, revealing small pale breasts and a skinny, hairless body. "I'm much more comfortable nude," she said, "but I try to avoid it in front of my pets. They get too familiar."

"I understand."

"Most of my clan have stayed true to our namesake," the Princess told her. "They're all sewed up tight as a drum when they reach womanhood, and can accept no more than a slender finger. I, while true to the blood, never saw the sense in this tradition, and don't seem to enjoy, to the same extent as my sisters, the plunging of my other channel. As the tradition is only informal, I opted instead to be circumcised, as you see, and am no tighter than a woman of any other clan." As she spoke the Princess sat back nude on the seat across from S'Leah and pulled back her knees. Her sex was a clean oval slit between her legs, slightly open and glistening red inside. Unencumbered by any wrinkled fleshy lips or hood, her hard red clit was much more prominent, like the tip of a finger.

"If I am to draw the wrath of some in my clan by choosing to remain open and unsewn," the Princess said, "I feel that I should, at every opportunity, exploit my uniqueness." She sat there on the bench, facing S'Leah, knees back and thighs apart, with just the barest hint of expectation on her face. The lipless crevice between her legs began to leak clear fluid.

S'Leah turned her head to look at the aide still sitting on the bench behind them. "Do you, perhaps, have another storage compartment?" she asked the Princess. A wide smile crept across the Princess' face.

"Why of course."

CHAPTER 16—THE SEED OF HOPE

The women represented the seven major clans west of Big River, each a branch of the royal bloodline. As such emissaries to this enclave, it was their duty to discover if there was a threat to the Queen. At this point, they had not enough information to confirm or deny if there even was a threat, much less if it was something that should concern the palace.

However, it was also their place to formulate a plan if such a threat were to materialize. Whether the threat was of force of arms, or a blood claim, or something they could not foresee, as ranking royalty they needed to come up with contingency plans for dealing with all possible problems.

The seven talked until afternoon turned to evening, but came nowhere near finishing the plans. There was just too much to consider, because the threat was too vague.

As the sun began to sink toward the horizon, and the heat of midday began to fade, they broke sup. Lady Lena had once again provided an exquisite spread, into which they delved greedily. Afterwards they formed the circle and prayed, then separated. The seven would meet again in the morning and continue the discussion.

Lady Koho-Sen returned to her room and found her wardrobe had been brought from her carriage. The wrinkles had been pressed from her clothing, which was hung and folded in her spacious closet.

After a long, hot bath, the handmaiden helped her change into a casual cut charcoal grey robe, and took her formal robes to be cleaned and pressed by morning. Then, alone, the Lady made her way down to the ground floor and looked for a door outside.

Lady Lena's main building was heavily populated by statua, which she was known to favor. Most were bent double and served as candleholders in small alcoves, or were used as furniture, although many were mounted on walls or hung from the ceiling in unique and interesting ways. Most were ripening adult, and those shapely, smart, and obedient enough would be trained as handmaidens after a year or two.

She finally located a doorway bordered by armored guards who nodded at her as she passed. She found herself on a grey gravel footpath, bordered in trimmed grass, on the back side of the main house. The large rock and flower gardens were before her, bordered by immaculate green lawns. Past that was the oval track where Lady Lena sometimes held pony races.

The stable was cool inside, and a hive of activity as the StableMistress and her assistants fed and washed the ponies after their late day exercise. Daka was there in the midst of all, soaping up an ebony beauty.

“Lady Koho! You honor us with your presence,” Uma said when she saw their visitor. She waved at hand at her helpers and they turned and bowed. One was a blonde boy with a stupid face, another was an unbound pony wearing just her hoofboots and a bit. She was very pregnant, due any day by the size of her belly. Her breasts had swollen and her nipples darkened, and the weight of her belly had made her sex a bulging, sagging purse that kept getting squeezed between her muscular thighs. All of them were dripping with water and bubbles, but Daka still wore his robe, wet up to his knees.

“Were you ringed, as I instructed?” she asked him.

“Yes, M'Lady,” Daka said, head bowed.

“Show me.”

He pulled up the front of his robe, displaying the curving arc of his shaft. He lifted up his parts as she instructed, and she examined the interlocking, seamless rings. The shot had worn off some hours before, and Daka was now in some pain, but he gave no sign of it.

“That's enough,” she said. “Has he been of any help?” she said to Uma.

“Yes, m'lady, and I'm glad to have him. He does indeed know his way around the ponies, and with this crowd I surely do need the help.”

“Good,” she said. “He'll be sleeping in the main house tonight, I'll send for him later.”

“Yes M'lady.”

“Please continue your chores, you look like you've got your hands full. You too, boy.”

“Yes M'lady.”

Lady Koho left the stable and walked aimlessly for a while. The gravel paths were many, crisscrossing the lawns and garden inside the protective U of the buildings. As she walked around a knob of small black boulders, their cracks brimming with wildflowers, she came across Lady Roba on a walk of her own.

“Lady Roba! Well met.”

“Lady Koho. Would you like to join us? I'm in no hurry and have no destination.”

“Just where I was heading.”

Lady Roba was accompanied by two dogs that, among their other skills, acted as her guards. They were both black as night, with fine glossy short hair that accentuated their muscular builds. The dogs were massive, with deep chests and narrow waists, and long whipcord tails. At the shoulder they stood over three feet, and reached to Lady Roba's waist.

The dogs had been on either side of their Mistress; when Lady Koho joined her the dog that would have been between them moved so the women were guarded from both sides. As the women walked, the dogs stayed right with then, never needing a command.

The two women had nearly traveled halfway around the grounds before a word was spoken.

“Your news of the Lost Prince fills me with hope,” Lady Roba said, looking forward. “But I sense danger ahead.”

“Of all the sisters of the circle, you are the only one I fully trust,” Koho told her. “Your whole life you have made it plain to all who have eyes that you have no use for the throne, or the palace, or the royal court, or its etiquette.” Lady Koho suppressed a smile. “Especially its etiquette.”

Lady Roba shot her a wry grin.

“Therefore you are the only one I can fully trust. That Berserker did not find me by chance.”

“But surely not one of the sisters? You yourself said it could have been a careless word in front of an aide or a pet.”

“I said that only to soothe the rising tempers,” Lady Koho told her. “I do not believe it.”

“But who? Who would have anything to gain?”

“All I have now are suspicions,” Lady Koho told her. “And because that is all they are, I will not repeat them. I will needlessly besmirch no clan's good name. As to what would be gained, that is not as simple a question as it first appears. It requires much thought, and some research, I fear.”

“Why fear?”

“Any moves will just draw attention to ourselves, even before we've discovered anything. I must be careful.”

They rounded a tiny copse of maples and found a group of naked children running in circles on the lawn. The two women stopped and watched the dozen or so girls as they energetically jumped and ran about. Their minder kept them in line with an occasional sharp word and a long switch.

“I will do what I can,” Lady Roba told her sister. “Many say things to me and mine that they shouldn't. They believe it will not be passed on because we are in disfavor at the court. They forget that I am still of the bloodline, Lady of a Clan numbering many, even though we are shunned.”

Several of the girls saw the dogs and ran over before their minder noticed. They stopped a few feet away and looked with huge eyes at the giant animals, which weighed three times what they did and could look the girls straight in the face.

“Ai! Ai! Away from the Ladies.” The minder finally noticed the diversion.

The girls wore training bits to shape their jaws, and had the unnaturally thick legs of bred ponies. In ten years or so they'd be full grown and pulling carriages.

The group of girls giggled and a few tentatively held out their hands. One of the dogs lowered his big head to their wiggling fingers, then dropped his nose lower to sniff between their legs. His tongue darted out once. The girls thought this was hilarious but their laughter turned to yelps as the minder waded in with the switch.

“My apologies, M'Ladies.” The minder bowed and then herded the children across the lawn away from the two women. Red stripes spotted their naked flesh here and there, marking the slow and unwary.

The dog that had moved forward to sniff the girls looked up to see his Mistress scowling at him, and hung his head in shame.

“Niku, you know better,” she murmured, flicking his head with a fingertip. “It must've been those cute little bits,” she said to Lady Koho as they continued on. “I've been letting them entertain my ponies on trips, and they forget themselves sometimes.”

“Have you brought others?”

“No, just these two, and two ponies. Time was a factor, and traveling light was more important than my getting bored. I see you felt the same. Two ponies, was it, and the boy?” She peered sideways at her sister.

“Yes.”

“An accomplished stablehand, or so I've heard. He must be, to have accompanied you all the way from your lands.”

Lady Koho just grunted. They walked in silence for another minute, neither looking at the other.

“You need to find out if he's the One,” Lady Roba said finally, in a low voice. “Soon. You are far from home, and your story will have already reached many unfriendly ears.”

Lady Koho didn't speak for a dozen slow steps. “I know,” she said ultimately. “If he is the Prince, and the Proof is shown here, he will be discovered. But if I wait until I return to my lands, that is many days journey, and much can happen meantimes.”

“Could the Berserker have been after him?”

“No.”

“If you travel with the boy now, with no protection, after you have told your story, the next Berserker-Shrike will not be after you . And I do not think you will be so lucky next time.”

“You word is true. But the way is hard to see. I must think on it tonight.”

“Will he be sleeping in the stables?”

“No, with me in my room. I'm not that foolhardy. He is desert-raised, and is unfamiliar with many things we find common. A mistake is all too likely.”

“And he has the mark? I hope he has remained clothed.”

“That is my biggest worry.”

“Would you like the use of one of my pets tonight? As a guard, I mean.”

Lady Koho smiled. “Within these walls I will be safe for a time. Do not worry. It is when I leave that the danger begins.”

They had completed their circle and were back at the main house's rear entrance. There they parted ways, with the Lady Roba ascending to her quarters with her pets while the Lady Koho wandered the halls for a bit before heading to her rooms.

After sitting quietly on a footstool for a time, brow furrowed in thought, she sent her handmaiden out, bidding her return with Daka and then to return with one of Lady Lena's famed assaya.

She returned with Daka, and when Lady Koho saw his condition she told the handmaiden to draw a bath and forget about the assaya for now. After a day working in the stables, Daka was as grimy and sweatsmeared as any pony she'd ever seen. The handmaiden was prepared to scrub and rinse him, but Lady Koho sent her away and bade Daka do it himself.

The tub was round and as wide as a man was tall. The handmaiden filled it with water almost too hot to touch, laid a small brush and bar of soap on the edge, and departed with a bow. Daka stripped and carefully eased himself into the scalding water. As he sat on the bottom of the black tub the water reached to his throat. He dunked his head under and began scrubbing his grimy flesh with soap and brush. His mistress sat just a few feet away, staring at him with a strange expression on her face.

This whole house is strange , he thought. At first he'd thought the nude and nearly so figures dotting the hallways, aglow in flickering candle light, were just the work of some odd sculptor. But then he'd seen the flat stomach of one of the statues bent double moving, and realized they were real people, standing unnaturally still, most with candles, or candleholders, deeply rooted in one or more body cavities.

It was definitely the most magnificent place he'd ever seen. Not that he'd been to much else than Jo-Town, but even the people were different. Cleaner, fresher than the types he saw in the Wash, in clothes so fine he could hardly imagine how much they'd cost. The main house alone held practically as many people as Jo-Town, if he counted the statue people.

The fluffy cloth he had to dry off with was of a better make and material than his robe, which had disappeared. When he'd stepped out of the tub and finished toweling off, his Mistress found a burgundy robe made of silk and bid him put it on. It felt strange against his skin, cool and smooth.

She followed him out of the bath room and waved at the waiting handmaiden, who departed. Lady Koho reclined on a low futon and kept staring at him. It made him feel nervous.

“M'Lady?” he asked, not sure what was required of him. The opulent surroundings, the silk robe, the throbbing ache between his legs from the new ring, all served to keep him on edge. He felt out of sorts, and was tired from working all day in the stables. He'd never had to deal with so many ponies at once, all needing to be fed, or watered, or hooked to the weight cart and run around the yard. His wrist and forearm ached mightily from massaging four or five of the ponies' sweet spots. He'd lost count, and had been only too glad to leave with the handmaiden.

With a quick knock the door slid open and the handmaiden appeared.

“M'Lady,” she said, and slid the door open further to reveal she wasn't alone.

Lady Koho beckoned the assaya in. “Leave us,” she directed the handmaiden, who bowed and slid the door shut.

Daka turned to watch this new figure. She was several inches shorter than he, with ebony waves of glossy hair piled upon her head. Her skin was creamy white and without freckle or blemish. She had brilliant blue eyes and her full, pouting lips had been painted a shiny, deep crimson.

She moved slowly into the center of the room, and dropped her robe to the floor before bowing reverentially. Under the patterned robe she wore naught but a sleeveless green silk dress. It clung alluringly to her body, and was cut daringly low in front and slit high up on her hip.

“What are you called?” Lady Koho asked.

“Gugina, M'lady.”

Daka tried not to stare at her, but he'd never before seen such a lush body. Her full breasts strained against the silk, bulging over it slightly, her large, puffy areola clearly visible through the fabric. Her hips were wide and shapely, her buttocks full and round. Her hips and thighs, in fact, were nearly as wide as a pony's, but where theirs were all blocky muscle she was soft skin and gentle curves. She moved like a snake, smooth and sensuous, with just a whisper of silk to mark her passing.

“The boy was ringed in place today,” Daka's Mistress told the courtesan. “I want to assure myself it was done correctly, and will hold, and also reward him for his work in your Mistress' stables. Use just your hands, and he will clean up after himself. Leave his robe on.”

Gugina smiled sexily and dipped her head. “M'Lady.” She slowly turned and regarded Daka with those piercing blue eyes. He was very nervous, and wasn't exactly sure what was going to happen, or what he should do. He was glad to hear his Mistress wasn't displeased with him, although he still couldn't guess why he'd been ringed.

The assaya sidled up to him, uncomfortably close, and stared in his eyes. The tip of her tongue appeared between her full ruby lips as her eyes dropped to his body. She moved around him, always close enough that he could hear her soft breath, and feel the brush of her breasts against his back or arm. Her eyes roamed up and down his body.

When she'd completed a circuit around him she bent forward. Her lips brushed the fuzz on his ear, and her warm breath tickled his cheek.

“Kneel down,” she whispered. Her voice was throaty and soft and smelled of raspberries.

Daka swallowed and knelt on the polished wood floor, his robe pooling around him. The assaya knelt right beside him, off his right knee, and leaned forward again. Her tongue grazed the curves of his ear, and her breath was louder. Daka swallowed again, afraid to move, and put his quaking hands on his thighs.

After trailing around the outside edge of his ear, her tongue slid down his neck, joined by her lips. So gently it was like a dream she began licking and sucking at his flesh. Daka closed his eyes and tried not to shiver.

Her hands slid down his chest and undid the belt at his waist. She opened the front of his robe, exposing first his stomach, then his groin and thighs.

“Ooooh,” she cooed, looking down. His big cock was rock hard, bent in a painful arc, its head tethered down deep between his legs. His cock strained hard at its bonds, but the new piercing had stopped aching in the heat of the moment.

Nuzzling and nibbling at his neck, the courtesan ran her hands over his chest. Her nails lightly scraped him, and tugged at his nipples, making him jump.

Her right hand slid down, down, across his flat stomach and smooth mound. Her palm felt cool against his throbbing flesh as she gripped his curving shaft in her hand. Daka groaned involuntarily, and was immediately embarrassed. He focused his eyes to see his Mistress watching him intently, laying on her futon scant feet away. That unnerved him, and he looked down to watch Gugina's hand.

She stroked him slowly, her grip firm, as she nuzzled his neck and licked his ear. Her soft breasts were pushed against his shoulder, and she rubbed them back and forth as she stroked him. Her nipples were hard under the green silk, and big.

The assaya moved her lips to Daka's ear and began whispering to him. Lady Koho couldn't hear what was being said, but Daka immediately reddened and looked at the floor. The courtesan kept whispering to him, her pouting lips tickling his earlobe, as she ground her breasts against his shoulder.

Her hand left his shaft and slid downward, out of sight. Her fingertips explored the head of his cock and the two rings, one big, one small.

The whispering continued as her hand came back up. She licked her fingertips, which moved back down and began rubbing the head of his throbbing organ. With every beat of his heart it bucked against its restraints, but could not break free.

Gugina whispered hoarsely into his ear, now bringing up her left hand. Daka watched it come up; apparently she was telling him what she was doing, and going to do, to him.

She licked these fingertips also, making a show of it, until they gleamed with saliva. Then the hand moved down behind his back, inside his robe, all the while her other hand was rubbing his sensitive cockhead.

Her slick fingers slid across his muscular buttock and down his crack. She pressed their flats against the puckered ring of his anus, and he started a little. When she began massaging his sensitive ring of muscle he groaned and involuntarily bucked up. She stayed with him, slick fingertips rubbing his sensitive flesh front and rear.

Daka hunched over, his fingers digging into his thighs, and cried out as he orgasmed. His cock bucked against the rings with every spurting clench, but the pain was inconsequential to the moment. His thick white seed shot from the head of his tethered cock with surprising force, splashing against the wood floor beneath him.

The assaya stayed with him as he hunched and shook, milking every last drop from him with her twirling fingers. They slowed as his spurts did, and grew still as he knelt there panting, sweat on his forehead. She whispered briefly into his ear, then backed away from him and stood up. Daka looked around for her, in a fog, as she turned to Lady Koho and bowed.

“I see they're satisfactory,” Lady Koho said. “Expertly done. You may leave now.”

The assaya bowed again. “M'Lady.” She turned and moved to the door, nipples still hard against the front of her dress. After stooping to retrieve her robe, she silently exited the room. Lady Koho waited until the door closed, then looked to Daka. He was still kneeling on the floor, looking dazed.

“Get up, carefully, and go sit over there,” she told him, pointing to the other futon. He did as she asked, buckling the robe around his lean body. His Mistress came off the futon on her hands and knees and cautiously approached the small white puddle on the floor. Daka watched her stare at it for several long minutes, as if she was waiting for his seed to speak to her. Tentatively, she reached out a finger, but quickly pulled it back and stood up.

“Clean that up,” she said. “You're sleeping there, tonight,” Lady Koho informed him, nodding at the futon. “Please, tell me you do not snore.”

The handmaiden came in at the requested hour to awaken her but Lady Koho was already sitting up on her cushion, watching Daka sleep. She roused herself, as if from a dream, and finally acknowledged the handmaiden.

Lady Koho accompanied Daka to the stables, saying she wished to look in on her ponies before breakfast. The ponies were awake and glad to see her. Because the stable was so busy, to eliminate any potential problems Uma put the ponies to bed in their hoofboots and armbinders. She lay them on their stomachs and bent their knees back so their boots hovered above their buttocks. Then with a short length of cord she secured their ankles to the bottom of the armbinder. The ponies slept quite peacefully, and no one had to worry about them during the night.

Lady Koho petted her ponies' heads as they lay in the stall, on a soft bed of hay, reassured they were being well cared for. She left Daka with Uma and stepped around a grounds crew just heading out. There were four of them, two men and two women, bare to the waist in the already growing heat. They wore loose loincloths and work shoes and were leading two ponies hooked to a cart. The three-sided cart was heavy with gravel, to use in repair of the numerous walkways crisscrossing the grounds. The ponies had to strain mightily to get the gravel-laden cart moving, but once the wheels started to roll they had few problems.

The circle reformed and the Ladies debated hotly what courses of action, if any, they should take. A lot depended on whether the Lost Prince had been found or not, but Lady Koho could give no assurances.

“I will know only after I have left here, and returned to him,” she told her sisters. “It is not what I would like, but that is the situation, and we must acknowledge it, and work around it.”

“The sisters would not be so worried if the Queen had but a few more years behind her,” Lady Roba said to Lady Koho, as they walked around the garden once again. After mid-day meal there had been a call for reflection, and they'd gone their separate ways for an hour. The two had met again in the garden, not by specific design, but neither was the event unexpected.

“That is true,” Lady Koho admitted. “And if the Queen had a few more years, maybe she would think for herself more and listen to her spinster advisors less, and welcome you and your clan with open arms. She knows only what she sees in the palace, which these days is rarely more than the simple loving of women. Her advisors distract her with the agile tongues of nubile assayan while they jockey for position in the court.”

“They are but bitter old women who now only lick each other to gain an advantage,” Lady Roba agreed.

“I was at the court not two months ago,” Lady Koho told her sister. “The Queen is no fool, and no dunce. But she knows not what she misses. She hardly knows ponies! And she's never toured the clans, much less an inseminarium. If she but stepped out of the palace her eyes would be opened.”

“Which is why I fear,” Lady Roba lamented.

They came across the grounds crew the Lady Koho had seen setting out that morning. They were taking a break in the shade of a big-leaved decorative maple. The ladies had passed many patches of fresh gravel in their walk, and the few weeds they'd noticed the day before had been pulled.

One man and one woman were sitting in the shade, eating fruits and dried meat. The other two were a few feet away on the grass. The woman was on her hands and knees, her loincloth around her thighs, and was being vigorously thrust into by her coworker. Their days toiling in the sun had baked them brown as the earth. The pony cart had been pulled nearby also, so the ponies could stand in the shade. They watched the rutting couple with interest, shifting their thick thighs occasionally.

The ladies stopped and watched the rutting couple, struck by the image. The woman's cheeks were tan, but still paler than the rest of her body. The man had her by the hips and was leaning over her, thrusting hard and fast. Her face was hidden to them, hung down between her arms. She rested on her elbows, her body shaking with his rhythmic thrusts. She had no breasts to speak of but still he was making them jiggle.

As they watched the man finished, grinding hard against the woman. After a few seconds of panting he withdrew from her and tugged up his loincloth, then sat down and resumed eating.

The woman, breathing hard, pushed herself upright and pulled up the fabric wrapped around her thighs. Then she sat down next to the other three and ate some more and rested for the length of their break.

“Sometimes I wish for such a simple life,” Lady Koho said, nodding at the two lovers who now were just two more workers resting in the shade.

“As do I,” Lady Roba agreed. They began walking again. “But it is not to be. And I would not give up my pets, they are my family. I care for them, as no one else would.”

So, they headed back to the main house to continue the discussion.

CHAPTER 17—PRECURSORS AND PREPARATIONS

Princess Sucette Souillon seemed inordinately proud of her clan's estate, and looked to S'Leah for confirmation. S'Leah supposed that it was rather impressive, by western Territory standards, but she'd been born and raised on the palace grounds. Compared to the palace, Clan Infibula's compound was poorly constructed guest quarters.

The Princess had become quite enamored of S'Leah. She seemed uniquely intrigued by her physical abnormality. Women with male organs were not that unusual—S'Leah was but one of dozens in and around the palace—but apparently she was all but one of a kind west of the River.

Sucette loved to fondle S'Leah's breasts and stroke her sexy feminine body while the ex-pony hammered her with her ever-hard organ. The combination was psychologically arousing to the Princess, who discovered she wasn't nearly as jaded as she'd thought.

S'leah had taken her nearly half a dozen times during the night and morning, always from the front so Sucette could look at and touch her purely feminine form. When S'Leah climaxed, the Princess would grab and hug her close, feeling her smooth stomach and breasts against her own even as her most masculine of features throbbed and pulsed and spurted inside her. Avowing it was something she never did, Sucette even tasted S'Leah's emission, but it tasted no different than any man's. How she knew what it should taste like without ever having the stuff before was a question S'Leah did not ask her.

Long before one of the drivers knocked on the roof to tell them they were drawing close to the Clan's holdings, the Princess was dressed and the picture of royalty, aloof and superior. By the time they pulled up to the front gates of her estate the aide, released from her compartment, had the pets out and waiting.

Clan Infibula's estate was a large, four-story building and three or four other small structures, scattered about like thrown gravel, all inside a low circular wall. The gate guards recognized the carriage and swung the wide doors open even as they approached. S'Leah said nothing but noticed the poor security—the guards couldn't see inside the coach, and had no idea who it was they'd just let in.

The coach rolled to a stop in the circular courtyard before the main house's entrance. The courtyard was paved with stones, and had a flower garden in the center. The deepset front doors were flanked by two blondes in burgundy finery similar to what the carriage drivers wore. Tailed, longsleeve coats, white ruffled blouses, and skintight calf-length trousers with glossy black toeboots. White gloves and tight ballgags completed the outfits.

The two doorwomen hurried to the coach door and unlatched it, bowing deeply. The Princess exited first, followed by S'Leah and then the aide leading the leashed pets. They seemed in no hurry to enter the house, however, and S'Leah took the time to look around.

Flower gardens bordered the main door and ran along the front of the house. This far north water wasn't as scarce, and the garden wasn't such a conspicuous luxury. On either side of the entrance, suspended from gleaming chain five feet off the ground, were nude women. S'Leah hadn't noticed them at first because they blended in with the mottled walls of the house and the flowers were what drew the eye.

Each was suspended from a chain by her wrists, which were bound together with wide padded leather cuffs. S'Leah raised her eyes and saw the chains were hooked to steel winches that protruded from the house three floors up. The women's legs were spread far apart by steel spreader bars cuffed to their ankles. Their feet were a yard off the ground.

A wide metal ring occupied the center of each spreader bar. A gleaming steel post rose from the ground and speared up through these rings, up higher between each woman's thighs, spearing up until it disappeared between the lips of their sexes. The posts were as fat as a man's ankle, and it was obvious the women had been lowered onto them, and if it was too big, their flesh either stretched or tore to accommodate the steel pole's girth. How deep they were speared by the posts S'Leah couldn't tell. How long they'd been there was another question. Both were unconscious or asleep, their heads hanging forward. Their bodies were shapely, and bore no marks other than the Clan brands.

Using the mobile platform the drivers offloaded the three trunks, assisted by the doorwomen. They left two on the wheeled flatbed, but set one on the ground beside the coach.

“S'Leah, come over here. I think you'll find this interesting,” the Princess said. She nodded at the drivers, who pried the trunk's latches open and cracked the lid.

The trunk was two-by-three-by-four feet in size, laid flat on the ground. As the lid came off S'Leah saw that it was lined with rubber and perforated by air vents, and inside it was a woman.

“On my trip I was staying with an important businesswoman of the territory. While I was there a roving band came down out of the north with captives to sell. Apparently they'd ambushed a caravan far to the north, beyond the boundaries of the Kingdom, and captured quite a few. Well, this one was cursing and spitting and fighting even after two weeks.” She smiled. “I can't wait to break her.” She indicated the woman's position in the trunk. “When my drivers went to load her in the coach she fought, and they discovered how easily she bends. Luckily I had a trunkvault with me.”

The woman inside the trunk was slender, with well-defined muscles and thick blonde hair chopped short. She was on her back, with her legs pulled behind her shoulders. Her ankles were crossed behind her neck, and bound with silk rope. Her arms wrapped around her thighs and behind her back, where her wrists were bound together. Her torso was thus curved, and her weight rested on her forearms and knees.

A black rubber catheter tube ran from the woman's wide open sex across her stomach and into the cylinder gag wedged into her mouth.

“I've found if you make them drink a gallon before you catheter them, a person can easily go a week without more water,” the Princess told S'Leah.

“How long has she been in there?”

“Four days? I don't know,” the Princess said unconcernedly. The woman was unconscious, her body sweaty and streaked. The trunk gave off a strong, unpleasant odor. “They'll clean her up, feed and water her, so we can play with her tonight at the party. She might be too sore or tired to resist much, but there'll be plenty of other diversions. It's to be a wetwall party,” she told S'Leah. “I've got several guests coming from Greenwood and the outlying lands.”

“I'm not familiar with the term ‘wetwall'” S'Leah admitted.

“Well then, this'll be all the more fun for you. Come,” she commanded the aide.

“Why are they on display?” S'Leah asked, nodding at the two impaled women on either side of the doors.

“Oh,” the Princess said, in some surprise. “I'd forgotten they were there. Why did I have them punished?” She looked at one of the liveried doorwomen.

One of the blondes removed her ballgag. “You had them cut open and posted because they'd spilled a bucket of dirty mopwater in the kitchen,” she reminded the Princess. “They're scullery maids.”

“Oh, that's right,” the princess nodded, snapping her fingers. “It's an ingenious device,” she told S'Leah with pride. “Counterweighted, so they sit on the pointed posts with only five pounds of pressure. It doesn't seem like anything at first, but after a few hours it gets quite uncomfortable. Why didn't my mother have them taken down before she left?” she asked the same doorwomen.

“The Lady Rosetta did not know why they were up, and assumed if you'd wanted them down you'd have ordered it before you left, M'Lady.”

“I forgot I had them posted,” the princess admitted.

“How long have they been up?” S'Leah inqured. The Princess didn't know.

“Eight days,” the doorwoman said. S'Leah thought she detected a hint of anger in her voice.

“Well, have them taken off and given some food,” the Princess said dismissively.

“The last one died two days ago, M'Lady.”

The Princess looked up at the two bodies in surprise. “Well, that's a shame,” she said after a few seconds. “They were quite shapely. All right, well, take the bodies down and get the posts cleaned. If they stay up much longer they'll discolor the steel.”

“Yes M'Lady.” The doorwoman wouldn't meet her eyes as she refastened her ballgag.

S'Leah followed her into the house and up a wide staircase. The aide trailed behind, leading the pets on their leashes.

“You'll have your own room,” the Princess told her. “Relax, take a bath, eat a snack. The party starts in four hours. I'll have my aide attend you until then.”

“You're too kind,” S'Leah said. “What should I wear? I did not bring many clothes.” She held up her small case.

“Something that goes off an back on easily, or just stays out of the way when the fun begins,” the Princess said with a smile. “Do not worry. I'll locate an appropriate robe for you. I wouldn't want your clothes to get stained.”

With so many elements still up in the air it was hard for the circle sisters to make any firm decisions, but by the afternoon of the second day their plans, for better or worse, were laid. They once more consulted Sempai Nodo, but she was of little help. Too much was still uncertain.

They prayed and sang to celebrate the circle and the bloodline, then stripped and, as etiquette decreed, pleasured each other. The sister were all highly skilled in the arts of love, but had no real passion for each other beyond their sisterly bonds. Each took turns tasting the others, and all climaxed at least once, but after ninety minutes the kanyu, the ceremonial joining, was over, and the women dressed and split into smaller groups.

“I wish to visit the Lady Hirondelle's seed farms,” Lady Koho said to the Lady of the House. “Accompanying Sempai Nodo. But the Sempai has but a small carriage, as do I. Lady Hirondelle does not have room for us both in her coach, and I do not think she wishes to leave as soon as we do. Would it be possible to borrow one of your coaches for a fortnight or more? We would be using our own ponies.”

“Of course, Lady Koho. I'm sure the Sempai would enjoy the company.” She lowered her voice. “And the Prince?”

“That is the reason the Sempai will be my companion. Who better to have on such a quest for the truth than an expert on the subject.”

“Quite right.” She paused. “Be careful, my sister. All is not as it should be. I sense danger.”

“As do I. Your warning is well taken.”

The evening meal was laid out with an artist's touch, and just as delicious to the palate. Afterwards Lady Koho retired to her room, but only briefly. She had many things on her mind, and could not bear to sit still for very long. She located the Sempai's room and finalized their travel plan. The historian was traveling with an aide in a four-pony carriage. The carriage, however, was too small to hold all four of them, and the general rule was to have at least twice as many ponies as passengers.

Lady Lena had a large coach available for them to use, set up for extended travel. To it they could harness all six ponies, which would be more than enough for the gently rolling hills between Lady Lena's estate and Clan Bukkake's territory.

The Lady Koho took a wrong turn leaving Sempai Nodo's quarters and found herself lost in the big complex. Statua stood or hung in niches at every turn, but they were forbidden to speak, much less move, and all were gagged besides.

After a series of confusing twists and turns through narrow hallways she found a staircase and took it down to the ground floor, or so she hoped. There she found herself at the end of a wide, straight corridor. She began down it just as a quartet of assayan novices rounded a corner ahead and walked her way, in pairs two deep. She stopped them with a raised hand and looked around.

“I am lost,” she admitted to the young women, dressed in the white robes of those learning their craft. They were nearly her height but not yet filled out, in the first flush of womanhood, which marked them as senior students nearly finished with their training. Soon they would be sold or traded to other clans or individuals of importance or means. They wouldn't be true slaves; rather, they would be indentured and required to work for a period of time, usually ten to fifteen years, to pay off their purchase price.

“Where might I find an exit?” she asked their young faces. They were all beautiful, in the classic sense, with excellent bone structure and perfect skin. All four pointed at once down the hall.

“Where am I?” she asked the closest novice, not recognizing the surroundings.

The young novices glanced at each other, then the one Lady Koho had addressed reached up and unbuckled the strap of her gag. From the base it appeared to be a hollow cylinder gag, but turned out to be a phallus-shaped trainer, flexible to follow the curve of her throat. This novice's trainer was unremarkable, eight inches long and proportionately thick. All the novices wore them, and had from the first day of training, until their throats had actually grown around them. Lady Koho kept numerous assayan at her own estate, for visitors or her own amusement, and even though they were all seasoned, with years of experience, they still slept occasionally with the penis gags in place to keep their gag relexes sublimated. It was one of the reasons why Lady Lena's assayan were so prized.

The pretty novice licked her lips, then said, “This is the training school, M'Lady. It's connected to the back of the main house, you must have come out that way.” She looked at her attentively, the gag in one hand. It was made of soft black rubber, and ventilated so she could breathe with it in place. Men, unfortunately, were far less common than women, but a skilled assaya was required to master all the lovemaking arts, and a skilled tongue was only part of the whole.

“Is the stable that way?”

“Yes, M'Lady.”

“Where do you go?” she asked out of curiosity.

“We go to our evening bath, M'Lady. Our studies are done for the day.”

“Continue on,” Lady Koho told them. She watched with glittering eyes as the senior novice opened wide and slid the phallus smoothly in, all eight, maybe nine inches of it, without a gag or even raising her chin. The four young ladies then nodded at her and continued down the hallway.

Lady Koho went the opposite direction, gradually noticing she was passing closed doors to either side. It dawned on her that these were the classrooms where assayan were trained. Curiosity filled her, and she stopped beside one of the doors and listened. And heard nothing. She gently slid the door open and found the bare room empty. Empty of everything, save thin cushioned mats on the floor.

She closed that door and put her ear to the next. Again nothing, and the room was empty when she opened the door.

At the third door she was almost surprised when the room turned out to be occupied. The instructor was leading her class of seven—always seven, three pairs and another on which the instructor could demonstrate—in stretching exercises. The young girls sat in sidesaddle splits, their robes off and folded on the floor beside them, while the teacher, barely an adult herself, led them in breathing exercises. Lady Koho closed the door before she was noticed, and continued down the hall. A far door opened and a class of seven exited, giggling. Their young cheeks were red and they were short of breath as they hurried down the hall past her, bowing jerkily. The classroom door was still open as she passed and Lady Koho saw the instructor picking up small mirrors off the floor. Behind her, on the wall, was a large photograph of the female sex, with each part labeled and identified with an arrow. The sex gaped open slightly, dark red, glistening, and engorged, and had very prominent features; it looked well—if not recently—used. If Lady Koho had to wager she imagined it belonged to an experienced assayan.

“M'Lady,” the instructor greeted her, the mirrors stacked in her arm.

“Self exploration?” she asked, nodding at the mirrors.

“Until a woman knows how to touch herself, she is useless to others,” the instructor said as if by rote. “It is one of the first things we teach the novices, and they practice and refine their skills on themselves for their whole career if they are to remain skilled.”

“I agree.”

“If you are looking for something to watch,” the instructor told her, “an intermediate class is next door, and running late, as usual.”

“As am I,” Lady Koho said, demurring. But as she exited the classroom, something caused her to stop, and turn. She slid open the next door quietly and watched, transfixed.

The instructor, a lean but well-muscled woman in her thirties, stood at the front of the room and faced the class. She was nude, as were the students, their robes folded and in a line along the wall. They appeared barely full-grown, and not yet as full of body as they would become. Beside the instructor, on a waist-high table, lay the seventh student. She was on her back, and held her knees back and apart with her hands. Every so often during the instructor's lecture she would gasp or buck or twitch, and Lady Koho saw her stomach was beaded in sweat. Her head was propped high up on her robe so she could see between her legs, as much as was possible.

“There is no hurry. There is no later. There is only the now,” the instructor told the class. Her entire hand was inside the demonstrator student up to the wrist. “When you use your whole hand, every tremor in you skin is an earthquake to her. Every twist of your wrist is the sun exploding. Go slow. Be gentle, until it is time to not be gentle.”

The six students were paired off and in a semicircle on the floor. Three were on their backs in identical positions to their classmate on the table, while their partners knelt between their open thighs. They all had small, slender hands, but still it had taken the last student fully an hour to fully introduce her hand into her partner. Finally, the instructor could move on to technique.

As she demonstrated slowly opening and closing her hand, the instructor gave a faint nod to Lady Koho, but never stopped her lecture. The students followed along on their partners as she showed them how to stroke the sweet spot with knuckles and fingertips, how to cup the womb in their fingers and massage it, how to stroke the clitoris with the off-hand and other, more subtle skills. While fisting played but a small part in the enclopedic pleasure skills the novices would learn in their ten years of training, this basic introduction to the technique would take thirty hours, spread out over several weeks, not including the hours the novices spent each day practicing on each other.

The student on the table had stopped trying to pay attention and was now just gasping and drooling and shaking. The three students on the floor were nearly in the same shape, and the room echoed with their cries. As the smell of sex filled Lady Koho's nostrils she was reminded just how long it had been since she'd been with another person. She slid the door closed, shutting off the shuddering cries and wet gasps, and leaned her head against the frame. Last night, watching the assaya and Daka, she'd been so close to joining them . . . but no, she couldn't risk it, and knew that for her safety and his she would have to keep her legendary libido under control.

At first her legs were shaky as she started down the hall, but by the time the entrance and its guard came into view she was in control once more and calm, at least outwardly. The wetness between her legs would remain to remind her of things for some time.

The stables, at first, appeared empty. When she walked through the open door into the cool interior no one was in sight, not a pony or a stablehand. But then she heard the clamor from further inside the building, and made her way in that direction.

The pregnant pony she'd seen the day before was in labor, and a small crowd had gathered. Uma was there, overseeing the event, while Daka and a wetnurse looked on. The wetnurse was bare to the waist in anticipation, and her big teats had spontaneously begun to leak in response to the pony's labor.

The pony reclined on an angled, padded bench. She wore her armbinders and lay on her folded limbs, and huffed and puffed around her bit, which looked well-chewed. She still wore her hoofboots, and had obviously been doing some chore when her contractions grew too intense to ignore. Some ponies were so inured to physical discomfort that they continued with what they were doing until the baby began to crown.

The pony's bottom hung just over the edge of the bench, and a midwife sat on a stool there, waiting. The pony's knees were drawn all the way back and far apart, and tied to hooks on either side of the bench with leather straps. In this position her distended stomach appeared even larger than it was. Her sex was dramatically stretched from the labor, and gaped wide, a dark red glistening oval.

Another contraction hit and the pony grunted and bore down. Her sex grew larger and a rounded, pinkish red shape appeared, then withdrew again after a few seconds. It looked like the baby was crowning, and she'd arrived just in time for the birth.

Ponies' pain thresholds were so high Lady Koho knew this one, provided there were no complications, would be back on her feet and working in a day or two. The baby would be taken in by the clan and raised by the wetnurses. The fact that the pony was giving birth in a stable, attended only by a midwife, was sure sign the baby was a girl. Male children were much more rare and precious, and such births were treated with more care. The girl, when it was old enough, would be placed into pony training.

The pony's small breasts were taut and swollen with milk. Her nipples were big and dark. She would be uncomfortable for a week or two until her milk dried up, about the same amount of time it would take her stomach to return to its former shape.

“M'lady,” Uma greeted her. Daka jumped in surprise at seeing her, then bowed and mumbled a greeting. Lady Koho supposed it was the first birth he'd ever witnessed, growing up in the middle of the Wash, with ponies only passing through, never staying.

“Your stables are remarkably empty,” she observed.

“Ranyo has them all out in the exercise yard,” Uma explained, and nodded at the sweaty, laboring pony. “She was making them skittish.”

Lady Koho indicated Daka. “Shouldn't he be out there helping?”

“If you wish, M'Lady, but he said he'd never seen a birth so I let him stay.”

“No, that's fine. He needs to be educated,” she said. “How is it you happen to have a pregnant pony?” she inquired with great curiosity. Not only were ponies, as a rule, barren from the demands of their duties, but any men on the premises with fruitful seed were supposed to be sent to the Inseminariums, by order of the Queen.

“That is a good question,” Uma admitted. “She is the second pony with child we've had in the past three years, and two statua have born fruit as well, and most of them are hardly old enough to have eggs. That is why the Sempai is here, in part, to take samples from all the males. They were all tested before, and declared barren, but appearently something has changed. She is an expert on seed, and I hope will be able to tell us who the seed bearer is among us.”

Lady Koho nodded and looked around idly. The pony was groaning loudly as she pushed for perhaps the last time, and Lady Koho was finding it hard to think. She stepped over to the next row of stalls and looked out the rear doors into the big exercise yard. There she counted twenty-nine ponies, of all colors and sizes, tied to the top rail of the fence by their collars. The dumb-looking blonde stablehand, Ranyo, was aggressively thrusting into a pony from behind. It appeared he was entertaining himself by taking the mounts one at a time as they stood in a row along the fence.

“Stablemistress?” she called out. Uma quickly was at her side.

“Yes M'Lady?” She followed Lady Koho's gaze, and frowned.

“He may be used to having his way with your Mistress' mounts,” Lady Koho said, “but if he tries to force himself on my mares they'll kick him to death. You are remiss in your duties if you have not told him the dangers of strange mounts.”

“Oh, I've told him all right,” she growled through clenched teeth, and started his way. “Apparently it's going to take more than that.”

“I hope Sempai Nodo took a sample from him,” Lady Koho called after her. “I'd gamble he's the one planting the seeds around here.”

 

 

 

                   CHAPTER EIGHTEEN—AWAKENING

 

Daka was a wreck.

Ever since that first moment when the assayan whispered in his ear and touched him, his brain had been tumbling.  He couldn’t think clearly, and could barely talk.  He had trouble just watering the mounts.

It wasn’t because the woman had touched him there.  He’d been touched there before, most recently by Nina prior to his ringing.  It was why she was touching him.  What she’d said, in his ear . . . he shivered again just thinking about it.

Daka wasn’t that sheltered.  He’d seen couples having sex numerous times, travelers doing what they could to liven up their trip through the Wash.  Men with women, most often women with women, twice men with men.  But it had never meant anything to him, being no more interesting than watching ponies run in circles.  Frisky mounts had tried to entice him, and there’d been that incident with the wetnurses, but he’d just never had any interest.  Until now.

Whether it was the secret, twisted things the assayan had whispered in his ear, or her touch on his flesh, he didn’t know.  But ever since she’d left the room all Daka could think about was mounting a woman.

All night visions of the assayan danced through his brain.  Her words echoed in his head and he imagined her nude, beckoning to him, offering her ripe backside to his organ.  His organ, meanwhile, throbbed and pulsed all night against the rings, refusing to subside.  He wanted to touch himself, but his Mistress was just across the room, sleeping.  He was afraid of what she might do if she found him touching himself—he had a suspicion that was why she’d had him ringed.

After a while, he became so enraged with lust he began fantasizing about his Mistress and what was under her robes.  But that didn’t last too long—she was his owner, and as such had the power of life and death over him.  It was hard to fantasize about mounting such a woman.

He finally got a few fitful hours of sleep, awaking not rested at all.  Daka hoped that the long hours of work ahead of him in the stables would keep his mind off of sex.  However, to his horror, he found himself staring at the ponies.  Their shapely thighs and muscular buttocks filled his thoughts.  No longer were they just draught animals, pieces of farm equipment as they had been to him his whole life.  No, as he fed and watered the ponies this morn he stroked their flanks, and thighs, and fantasized about them in a way that was no different than how he’d fantasized about the assayan or his Mistress.  It was as if a blindfold had been pulled from his eyes, and it was all he could do to control himself as he maneuvered the nearly two dozen ponies into position to eat and drink.  He didn’t see them as animals anymore, as different from his Mistress as the moon was from a rock on the road, he saw them, for the first time, as females.  Beautiful, athletic females, trained to serve, wearing nothing but their tight leathyrs.  How many times had he pushed away frisky ponies trying to grind their centers against him?  Hundreds, that’s how many, perhaps thousands.  After short runs getting mounted was just about all that ponies wanted, and yet he’d never been interested.

Until today, when he was physically unable because his Mistress had ringed his cock down.

Daka throbbed all day, through every chore, unable to tear his eyes away from the flesh of whatever pony he was closest to.  When Uma, sometime after midday, informed him the Ladies would be leaving tomorrow and therefore the ponies wouldn’t need their sweet spots massaged, he nearly cried.  Only the big bellied pony going into labor was distraction enough.  He was at once fascinated and repulsed by the miracle of birth, although the repulsion didn’t happen until the midwife broke the bag of waters and the pony began to bleed a little.  But still he couldn’t tear himself away, not until the amazingly tiny baby squirted right out of her and began crying in the midwife’s arms.  He wouldn’t have believed it possible if he hadn’t just seen it himself.

The midwife cleaned the baby and then wrapped it in a blanket and handed it to the wetnurse, whose massive sagging teats were already streaming milk.  The infant girl immediately clamped her mouth on one of the big dark nipples, and Daka stared until the wetnurse walked out of sight, heading toward the nursery.

“It’s a nice healthy girl,” the midwife told the pony.  “You should be proud.”  She examined her for any unseen tears and wiped her clean, then studied the disgusting mass that had followed the baby out.  Daka was informed it was the placenta, but the word meant nothing to him.

“Come,” Lady Koho called to him for the third time, and finally he heard her.  They passed Uma whipping Ranyo’s bare cheeks with a wide belt.  Daka didn’t know what his crime had been, but Uma was working him over with a vengeance.  Ranyo, for his part, was crying with each blow.  Daka was embarrassed for him.

He followed his Mistress up to the room and ate some food she’d had brought for him.  She sat and watched him eat, which made him nervous, but he said nothing and kept his eyes downcast.  While she ate she informed him they’d be leaving in the morning, heading north.  She didn’t say where they were going, and while she did say they wouldn’t be traveling alone she didn’t tell him who their companions would be.  Orr had been the same way, and Daka had long ago learned to curb his curiosity.  Asking questions usually only led to a rebuke.

Lady Koho told him to take another bath, as there would be no time in the morning, and dismissed the hovering handmaiden for the night.  Daka held out hope the assayan would come again, and kept glancing toward the door, but it was not to be.

After an uncomfortable bath, with his Mistress sitting beside the tub, staring at him oddly, she bade him dress in a provided robe and go to sleep on the futon as they would have an early start.

Lady Koho, for her part, laid on her own futon and closed her eyes, but sleep was not easy in coming.  The vision of Daka’s curved organ, dripping with bathwater, came unbidden into her mind, and would not leave.  Even as she felt her body responding she tried to think of other things, crop failures, droughts, stillborn babies.

“Mistress?”

She jerked and opened her eyes.  Daka was standing over her, a frown on his face.  She’d been on the edge of sleep, finally, when he spoke.

“Yes?” she said crossly.

“We shouldn’t sleep here,” he told her.

“What?”

“We shouldn’t sleep here, it’s not safe.”

“What are you talking about?  What isn’t safe?”

“I don’t know.  All I know is we’re in danger in this room.”

Lady Koho sat up, blinking, and looked around the room.  All was as it was before.  Through the slatted blinds covering the window she could see it was dark, but the hour was not yet late.  Daka peered at her with a concerned, yet confused look on his face.  He didn’t know why he felt the way he did, but he was sure down to his bones that they were in danger if they stayed in the room.

Lady Koho stood and walked over to the window.  They were three floors up, and in as safe a spot as could be found on the premises.  They were almost directly over the main entrance to the house, which was guarded day and night.  Not that the exterior of the structure could be climbed anyway; the master who had built the house had left its face smooth and seamless. 

She shut the blinds and turned to her worried charge.  “Why do you say this?”

“I don’t know, Mistress,” he admitted.  “But I know in my heart it is true.”

Had he been but a simple piece of property, and this his first warning, she would have ignored it. But he might be the One, and she could not forget his warning on the road in.  Without it, the Berserker-Shrike would have killed at least one of them, probably both, as well as destroyed the carriage.

The decision was not a difficult one to make.

“Be silent,” she commanded him, and moved past him to the door.  She opened it silently, and peered into the corridor.  For the moment it was empty, save for a statua across the hall, bent double and bound wrists to ankles.  Her eyes were closed, and she appeared asleep, although most statua remained in a kind of trance even when awake.  Her fat candle had burned down almost to the black iron base anchored in her rectum, which someone would be by soon to change it.  Now was the time.

Lady Koho motioned Daka forward and closed the door when he was beside her in the hallway.  She put a finger to her lips and gestured for him to follow her.  Very quickly she moved down the corridor, taking care to be absolutely silent.  At the corner she peered around, then was off again.  Daka had to hurry to keep up.

Near the end of the hall his Mistress stopped and quietly knocked on a door.  As they waited, Daka heard no sound, uyet the hair on the back of his neck stood up.

“Yes?” a woman said guardedly.

“It’s Koho-Sen,” his Mistress murmured to the crack.

There was a pause, then the door slid open.  Daka saw a plain-faced Lady in brown robes, looking at them curiously.  She was flanked by two of the largest dogs he’d ever seen, both black as midnight.  They stared at him.

“My room is not safe tonight,” Lady Koho said.  “I cannot explain.”

Lady Roba raised her eyebrows, then looked at Daka.  A thoughtful look appeared.

“You do not need to.  Please, come inside, quickly.”  She closed and locked the door behind them, and the two dogs relaxed.

“However,” Lady Roba murmured softly to Koho-Sen, “we have a bit of a conundrum.”  Past her the Lady Koho saw they weren’t alone.  Lady Roba’s handmaiden stood against the wall, out of the way, and an assayan novice, half out of her white robes, reclined on a futon.  Both stared at the company with interest.

“If either leaves tonight, your location could become known.”

“Then you must keep them until the morning,” Lady Koho said.  She nodded at the novice, who was about Daka’s age.  She was slender as a reed, pale and delicate.  Her face was beautiful, and it was obvious she knew not the meaning of guile, or deceit.

“Yes, well.”  Lady Roba moved toward the novice, who looked up at her expectantly.

“The Lady Lena’s instructor’s tell me that of all their students, past and present, Genoise here is unique.  Not only, so they say, does she have apparently limitless enthusiasm and a boundless appetite, but as far as they can tell she has no natural inhibitions.”

“Isn’t that to be expected in assayan?” Lady Koho asked, moving to a chair.  She directed Daka to the corner, where he sat down.

“A trained assayan would never betray any inhibitions,” Lady Roba admitted, cupping the novice’s chin in her palm and smiling down at her.  “But a person without any inhibitions is a rare thing.  I am known throughout the kingdom for my eccentricities, and am thought to have no shame or inhibitions, but I assure you I have my limits, as I’m sure you do, Koho-Sen.  Hard to find, perhaps, or trigger, but they are there.  The finest assayan instructors in the kingdom do not seem to be able to find such boundaries with this young thing,” she said, looking down at the novice.

“I was looking for someone to help in my house,” Lady Roba continued.  She motioned for Genoise to stand up.  The robe fell around her feet, and she stepped out of it.  Her small breasts were high and round, her nude body narrow and nearly as white as milk.  She had no gag, and her mouth now opened slightly.  She was breathing harder, perhaps with excitement.  She looked from Lady Roba to Lady Koho to Daka, and back.

“Genoise was recommended, as I said I would prefer an assayan not ingrained to a certain clan lifestyle.”  She motioned the girl back down onto the futon.  “So that the lifestyle of my clan was not such a shock to her.  I was thinking of a fully trained assaya, however, not a novice, although she has nearly completed her training.”  Genoise leaned back on the futon in a practiced pose, displaying all of her charms.  “My clan is far from Lady Lena’s, in more ways than just miles.”

Lady Roba sat reclined in a large chair, her dogs sitting to either side.  She rested her hands on their backs, and smiled at Genoise.  “Are you wet?” she asked her.

“Yes, M’Lady, I am curious and excited to be here, but I am ever wet.”  She stroked the outside of her hip.  She lay on one side, her knee drawn up.

“And do you really have no inhibitions, as your instructors say?”

Genoise tilted her head.  “I know I’ve always been eager to try everything they’ve taught us, and have never found anything I didn’t enjoy.”

“Never?”

“No M’Lady.”

“Good.”  Lady Roba lifted her hands off her pets and the dogs rose and moved toward Genoise.  Her mouth opened in surprise, and she looked from Lady Roba to Lady Koho to see if this was some sort of trick.

The dogs stopped beside the futon, and one lowered his head to sniff the small slit between Genoise’s thighs.  Apparently he liked what he smelled, for he began licking her folds, with a tongue as wide as her palm.

The novice started at the first lick, then began giggling.  She watched with interest as both the dogs’ organs began to grow beneath their bellies.  They were bright red and massive, with a bulging knot at the base.

“I had heard stories, but Lady Lena has no dogs,” Genoise nearly whispered.  “Oh, you’re magnificent, you two,” she breathed in wonder.  Her hand reached down to the pet the head still furiously working between her legs.  “Come here, sit down,” she said to the other animal, patting the edge of the futon near her head.  The second dog hopped onto the futon where there was just enough room for it and obediently lowered its hindquarters to the cushion.  Genoise’s head disappeared from view as she buried it between the dog’s legs, and her own thighs widened further.  Watching from the chair, Lady Roba nodded, and began to undo her robe.

 

 

S’Leah stepped out of the deep tub and finished drying off.  She was alone in her quarters, having dismissed the handmaiden and locked the door.  The Princess’ aide would be returning soon, as soon as she returned the pets to their places, wherever that was, so her time was limited.  She removed the gray rectangle from her case and sat crosslegged on the polished wood floor.  The wood was cool after the hot bath, and felt good on her male parts—her capacity was greater than most, if not all, and yet the Princess was doing her best to test her limits.  It sounded as if the party tonight would see her entering quite a few more holes.

S’Leah took a deep breath, calmed herself, then touched the gray rectangle.  There was nothing for a long while, then the swirling colors finally appeared and coalesced into the face of her benefactor.  She looked tired and worn, her purple robes, for once, not immaculate and wrinkle free.

“Yes my child, I’m glad to see your face.  I’m hoping you call with good news.”

“My Lady, are you well?  You seem . . . tired.”

“I have worries I did not have before, but that is not your concern.  Do not let my worries distract you.  Now tell me—what has happened since last we spoke?  Have you been successful?”

“Yes.  I am where you hoped I could get, and am in some favor.”

“Then this person has found you interesting?” she said with a small curling smile.

“Sufficiently.  What am I to do now?”

“How much time might you have there?”

“At least until the day after tomorrow, without becoming a nuisance.”

“Really?  That is good.  Here is what you must do.  Kill her.  If possible, blame it on another, or conceal the deed and delay the outcry, but that is what you must do.”

“Are you sure, M’lady?”  It was by no means the first time she’d been asked to kill, but never had the target been of the bloodline, much less a Princess and fourteenth from the throne. 

“If you cannot do it, tell me now.  This is important, but if you feel you can’t succeed, and escape, I need to know now.”

“I can do it.  But it may take several days before I have an opportunity.”

“My faith has never wavered.  Stay true.”

“I am yours, My Lady.”

S’Leah was putting on the red silk robe when the aide returned and knocked on the door.  The Princess had told her the robe was all that would be required for the party, and so that was all she wore, although she kept her toe boots on.

For some reason the knock on her door enraged her.  S’Leah stomped across the room and threw back the bolt.  Why she was furious she didn’t know, but the blood was in her eyes as she flung wide the door.

The Princess’ aide stood in the hallway.  The pets were back in their places, and now, primped and ready for the party, the aide had come for S’Leah.

S’Leah stared at the aide’s pretty, painted face, and her bright red lips wrapped around a matching rubber ballgag.  The aide was totally nude but for high-heeled shoes, and displayed a slender, pale body.  S’Leah’s eyes trailed over the small, bare breasts and their dusty pink nipples, down the aide’s stomach, and—

For a few seconds S’Leah’s eyes didn’t comprehend what they were seeing.  At first she thought the aide sported horribly distended and sagging labia, hanging straight down from her smooth mound.  Then she realized the aide wasn’t a woman.  She wasn’t even a man.  The aide was a stuffed gelding, sporting a tiny penis which was inserted, through a slit, into his empty scrotum.  Only the very base of his penis was visible, the rest was inside the flesh bag that had once held his stones.

With a strangled cry S’Leah grabbed him by the neck and threw him across the room.  The aide landed on hands and knees, and before he’d recovered, S’Leah, shed of her robe, was on him.  The fury now had a focus, and S’Leah hated being deceived, even though no one had told her the aide was a woman.  She’d just assumed, because of the breasts and the soft, shapely buttocks.  Which she now grasped fiercely with her fingers and spread.  S’Leah’s cock was a bar of iron she stabbed deep into the aide, who squealed with the first thrust.  However, after just a few seconds, the aide was already pushing himself back onto her shaft eagerly, even though she was being rougher with him than she’d been with anyone in years.

S’Leah jerked out of him in disgust and punched him in the side.  The aide grunted and rolled onto his back.  S’Leah deftly turned around and straddled his hips, facing his feet.  Before her his small cock was hard inside his sack, stretching it out like a fleshy sock.  She took hold of the bottom of his bag and roughly pulled his shaft out into the open air.  Bending it back under her, out of the way, she dug both her thumbs into the slit in his bag and opened it up.  The aide squealed again but knew better than to struggle.

S’Leah shoved her hard cock into his welcoming sheath, finding it slick and cooler than his backside had been.  His stretchy flesh bag covered her glans and half her shaft, which was much larger than his boyish organ.

S’Leah leaned forward and took his ankles in both her hands in an iron grip.  She kept his legs together and flat on the floor as she began to pump against him, harder and harder, fast and rough.  The aide squealed and put his hands on her ass, signaling her that she was being too rough, but S’Leah ignored the signals.  She painfully stretched his scrotum with each thrust.

S’Leah was out of her mind with fury and lust, thrusting against him like a dog in heat, mindlessly.  She did not notice that after a few minutes the aide stopped protesting.  It was not too much later, when she was getting close, that he slid two fingers into her bulging anus.

With a roaring cry S’Leah came, bucking and spurting into him, even as she felt him put a thumb inside her tight vagina.  Shrieking and sweating, she hunched and slithered atop him, filling his bag with seed, her vaginal walls pulsing around his thumb.  The aide arched up behind her in ecstasy, free hand furiously squeezing his own puffy nipples.

As her passionate rage finally subsided S’Leah lay along the aide’s legs, panting.  After a minute she collected herself and sat up.  He gently pulled his fingers from her anus, but the thumb stayed in place.  Even when she leaned back to make his finger pop out, still it stayed in her.  It was only when she reached down between her legs under her scrotum to dislodge his digit that she discovered it was his penis, and had slipped into her during her frantic bucking.

S’Leah gently removed herself from the aide.  His bag had turned out to be quite elastic, and had engulfed her entire shaft before she was through.  His small organ glistened with her juices—and his, she realized.  He’d climaxed as well.  She couldn’t remember the last time a man had climaxed inside her vagina—perhaps not since she’d been a pony, although she wasn’t sure if this one counted as a man.  His cock was still ramrod stiff, and stood just under four inches tall.

S’Leah felt the wetness between her legs and as the aide lay there, arms above his head, breasts glossy with sweat, S’Leah, after years of eating seed in her search for the One, reached between her legs and stuck a finger into herself.  She licked her finger and stood there, conflicted.  As if she hadn’t degraded herself enough with this one, not even a real man.  As she swallowed the salty fluid she put her hands on her hips and looked down at her sweaty body, and at his.  And she’d just gotten out of the bathtub.  What the hell was she thinking?

   

 

 

 

 

                            CHAPTER NINETEEN—REVELATIONS

 

“I thought perhaps you’d decided not to come,” the Princess said with a smile.

She stood before the arching doorway leading into the gathering room where the party was just beginning.  A dozen people were visible inside the room, mostly crowded around the buffet table.  Most seemed to be middleaged women, influential people or faint offshoots of the bloodline.  They all wore robes, brightly colored, and were in a festive mood.

“I was . . . delayed,” S’Leah told her.  The aide stood at her elbow, in nothing but his high heels and gag, cocked stuffed back into his bag, which was still somewhat stretched out.  S’Leah turned to glance at the aide.

“Seeing your aide was a surprise,” she told the Princess.  “Totally unexpected, I’m sure you’d agree, seeing as I’d already had her.  Him.”  S’Leah shook her head.

“I bought Kyuri when he was just a little boy,” the Princess said with a smile.  “Some barbarians had him, I know not where they found him, but I was able to get him for a very low price.  He was very disagreeable at first, rambunctious, mouthy.”  She smiled at the aide.  “I was studying near the palace then, barely a woman myself, and went to those I thought could help.  The gene-weavers made for me elixirs which were to soothe him, and I combined them with what physical reinforcement and behavior training I thought was appropriate.  The result that you see was not what I intended.  There was no problem with my methods.  The problem was with the elixirs.  By the time Kyuri was old enough to grow hair on his parts he was growing breasts, and acted more like a woman than some that are.  He never did grow hair.  Although it wasn’t what I intended, it pleases me to see him so, and so I had his stones removed to make sure he wouldn’t change.  Most who have spent time in him, as you, never know his true self, and that to me is delicious.”

“Delicious,” S’Leah repeated.

“As for him, he is never happier than when he is being mounted or beaten, so we are all happy.  That bag of his is truly remarkable.  You would be amazed how much it will stretch if you fill it with weights.  Can you believe I once fit both my fists inside it?  It took quite a bit of work, though, and wasn’t nearly so attractive as it is when it is so tiny.  But come, come inside, most have arrived, and I wish to show you around.”

“I still do not know what a wetwall is,” S’leah said.

“I will show you.”

The Princess led S’Leah in and introduced her to most of the crowd.  She automatically indexed their names and faces, even though most of them were unimportant business owners of the territory.  Most had the thickness of middle years, the women big busted, the few men with bulging stomachs.

Kyuri wasn’t the only nude toy in the room.  The guests were attended by half a dozen pretty young women, blondes and redheads, dressed in nothing but black leathyr pumps with heels so tall they looked like stilts.  All were clan property, and had been sewn up since infancy.  Their outer labia had been drawn together and sewn tight, enclosing their clitorises and sealing off all of their channel but for a tiny opening barely big enough for a finger.  The seam on some wasn’t even visible.  S’Leah had heard the women of this clan masturbated by slapping their smooth mounds, and thus stimulating their flesh-bound clitorises underneath, but had yet to witness it herself.  All women of Clan Infibula were presumed to be anal devotees.

Scattered about the room were fifteen or so freestanding wall sections, about four feet wide, reaching from floor to ceiling.  S’Leah stared at them, realizing the party was named after them.

The Princess led her over to the nearest wetwall and let her look it over.  In the center of it, waist high, was a woman.

It looked as if the wall had been built up around her.  She lay on her back, her center of gravity balanced above the six-inch-thick wall.  Her legs were pulled all the way back, so that her knees were on either side of her chest, and her lower legs pointed straight upwards.  So it was that on one side of the wall all S’Leah could see was the woman’s bottom half:  her bottom, arching upward slightly, and the tops of her thighs bent forcibly back, making her sex bulge out aggressively.  The wall began just above her navel.  On the other side the woman’s upper body was sunk in the wall up to her breasts.  Her arms were spread out parallel to the floor, wrists locked to the wall, as were her ankles above her, her calves against the wall.  She wore a leathyr collar, and a cord ran from the front of the collar to a ring on the wall between her ankles, to help support her head.

“Ingenious, isn’t it?” the Princess said.  “The walls come apart in the middle, top and bottom.  They just climb in, get their center over the wall—which is padded—and get locked in.  Of course, you need them properly flexible first.  These are not clan women, you can see as they are unsewn, but we train them properly for this and other occasions.”  She grabbed the edge of the wall and pulled.  It turned, and instead of her head S’Leah was once more looking at the occupant’s sex.  With her knees pulled back to her chest, the woman’s two orifices were the most prominent feature of the side of the wall.  S’Leah’s eyes were drawn to her crimson, bulging flesh, which appeared already greased for action.

The Princess spun the wall again and S’Leah found herself looking down into the woman’s face.  She was blindfolded with leathyr goggles, and fitted with a wide hard rubber ring gag that kept her jaws apart and yet afforded any passers-by the use of her.

“Of the fourteen, three are men,” the Princess informed her, pointing one out.  All S’Leah saw was a slightly hairy backside, muscular, with matching thighs.  His hole was a dark shadow; his cock and balls, kept turgid by a chromed cock ring, lay along his stomach.  “You can bend his tool down and sit on it facing away from the wall,” she told S’Leah.  “They’re just the right height.  That’s fourteen bodies, which makes twenty-eight walls.  And thirty nine holes,” she added with a smile.

S’Leah moved back to the food tables and ate.  The party guests were loud and familiar with each other for the most part, and Kyuri saw regular use.  S’Leah was polite and responded to questions, but kept to herself.

After a while the guests shed whatever clothes they still wore and got down to serious play.  By ones and twos they wandered over to the wetwalls scattered throughout the center of the room and began playing.  The clan toys seemed to be treated as nothing more than mobile rectums, and not especially tight ones at that.

“You don’t look like you’re enjoying yourself,” the Princess said to her, walking up.  She had lost her robe, and sported a very large strap-on rubber phallus.

“I’m just slow to warm up to strangers,” S’Leah explained.

“Well, if you disrobed, and displayed your charms, most of these women would waste no time warming up to you,’ the Princess told her.  “But come, let me show you something.”

Kyuri appeared at her elbow as the Princess led S’Leah across the room.  A small group of guests clustered around a wetwall.  S’Leah saw the woman encased in the wall was the same blonde the Princess had transported in the trunk atop the carriage.  Her jaws were cracked far apart by a stiff rubber ring gag, but her eyes were uncovered, and they glared furiously at the crowd around her.  She was yelling at them, or cursing, but the gag keeping her jaws apart turned everything into unrecognizable garble.  She tugged at her wrists fiercely, but they were securely locked down to the wall.  Her skin was scored red from her struggles.

“Look how angry she is,’ one of the guests said with a giggle.

“That’s because she was just captured,” another woman said.  “She hasn’t grown to love the bit yet.”

“Look at that spirit.  I don’t know if she can be broken,” said the man next to S’Leah.

“Anyone can be broken,” the Princess said.  “It just takes time and determination.”  She nudged S’Leah, and nodded at the captive, who was struggling again.  Surrounded by nude bodies, she knew what was in store for her.  “Use her mouth,” the Princess said.  It was obvious that the idea excited her.

S’Leah undid the belt of her robe and shrugged it off.  As it fell to the floor the blonde noticed her, then did a doubletake as she saw S’Leah’s rising organ.  Her eyes went wide, and flew up to meet S’Leah’s.

Grudgingly, S’Leah moved above the woman’s head as the crowd egged her on.  The short-haired woman tried to turn her head and look at her, but the line attached to her collar limited her mobility.

The opening in the ring gag was more than big enough, and the inside of her mouth was red and glistening.  Taking a breath, S’Leah grabbed a fistful of the woman’s hair and bent her head back down toward the floor.  Her slender neck became a straight line ending in her open mouth, aimed directly at S’Leah.  She slid her cock deep into the woman’s mouth, then let go of her hair.

Immediately the woman began thrashing her head around, trying to pull away from S’Leah’s cock, but she couldn’t move much more than an inch in any direction.  S’Leah felt the ring flex as the woman bit down as hard as she could, to no avail.  Her head was impaled on S’Leah’s shaft, and she couldn’t move enough to pull away.

S’Leah stroked her throat, and upper arms, before beginning her gentle thrusts.  She began playing with the blonde’s breasts, squeezing and kneading.  The blonde’s hands were thrashing claws against the wall as she fought to get free.  Even as she gagged and coughed and slurped she bellowed outrage at her treatment.  The crowd hooted and hollered.

The Princess moved around to the other side of the wall, out of S’Leah’s sight.  Suddenly the blonde stiffened and cried out.  S’Leah felt her body begin shuddering as if she was being struck by a heavy hammer and knew the Princess was at work with her strap-on on the other side of the wall.

S’Leah climaxed as soon as she could, with little joy, and pulled out of the woman’s mouth.  The captive barely had time to catch her breath, sobbing and shaking from the pounding the Princess was still giving her, before a male guest fed his soft fat organ into her mouth.  Her cries of protest were muffled as he began ramming his quivering bulk against her face and mauling her breasts.  The party began in earnest then, and S’Leah spent most of the evening demonstrating her unique attributes to the Princess’ female guests, much to their delight.

The Princess took her big rubber strap-on to most of the wall-bound bodies in the room, male and female alike, working it with the skill of one born to the equipment.  The blonde captive saw quite a bit of rough treatment from the Princess’s guests—the males spent most of their time in her mouth, while the females used fingers and pieces of food on her other end.  Even Kyuri took his turn in her, although his tool was so small it was doubtful that she much noticed.  The wall section that saw the most visitors, however, was the one which housed a male everyone called Ox.  S’Leah gathered that he was a bit of a local legend.  Huge by any standard, his wide, muscular body drew the princess’ female guests like flowers drew bees.  They’d alternate sitting on his thick cock with its many piercings with abusing his hole with fingers, hands, or whatever toys happened to be within reach.  His wide hips and years of having ever-larger objects rammed into him contributed to his well-deserved notoriety.  Nearly every female guest there took the opportunity to see what it felt like to put their whole hand inside a man, but it wasn’t until Amanda Smith of Smith Mercantile began playing with him that things got interesting.  She was a giant woman; not tall, but hugely fat, with a great round head and a body that looked like it had been inflated with a high pressure air hose.  Her fat fingers were like sausages, her fists like the heads of babies.  Her hand alone would have gotten Ox’s attention, but this was her first invitation to one of the Lady Sucette’s parties, and she wanted to make an impression, so she’d be invited back.  So she greased her arm up to the elbow and worked at Ox like a miner. 

Her forearm was swollen as large as a man’s calf.  Smith never touched his organ, but her twisting fist and fat trunk of a forearm had Ox twitching and sweating and spraying all over his own stomach.  By the time she’d wormed it all the way into him, nearly to her elbow, occasionally slapping his large balls with her free hand, Ox had come three times all over himself.

“I think your fist is on the other side of the wall,” the Princess had laughed.  The Princess got so aroused by the show that when the huge woman finally withdrew her arm from Ox the Princess immediately pulled her to the ground and went wild with her strap-on.  Half the onlookers watched them, the other stared in wonder at the gaping tunnel in Ox as it slowly collapsed.  Ms. Smith would very definitely be invited to the next party.

 Several hours after midnight the last of the partygoers ran out of energy.  One by one they wandered off to their rooms, sometimes pulling on their robes before they left, sometimes not.  The staff began sliding the wetwalls in concealed tracks to an adjoining room.  There the stretched, streaked bodies were removed from the walls and hosed off.  Those sewn clan toys not grabbed by guests were at last sent back to their quarters.

S’Leah found herself the last to leave, alone with the Princess watching her people slide the last of the wetwalls to the clean-up room.  Sucette had finally unbuckled her oversize phallus near the end of the night.  Its straps left red stripes on her narrow hips.

“Where is she going?” S’Leah inquired, nodding at the blonde captive, still bent double inside her wetwall.  Hers was the only wall left in the main room.

“Tonight?  Well, tonight I’m going to let her hang there and drip dry.  Tomorrow?  Well, we’ll see.”  Semen covered the blonde and dripped from all three of her holes, which were still stretched out.

The Princess stretched, arms straight out above her head, then reached between her thighs to finger herself.  “I poked so many tonight that I never got around to getting poked,” she said, turning to S’Leah.  “Are you too tired?”

“Never for you,” S’Leah told her.

“Come with me to my room,” the Princess said with an expectant smile.  “I miss my silk sheets.”

The staff had begun mopping the pools of sweat and semen from the floors.  The blonde captive appeared unconscious in her perch, but they ignored her.  The Princess ordered them not to touch her, and then led S’Leah away.

It was but a short walk to her spacious quarters, nearly one half of the building’s third floor.  S’Leah was dismayed to see the door to the Princess’ rooms flanked by massive guards.  The two huge women nodded at her, and eyed S’Leah in her robe.  Mostly they just watched her breasts bounce against the silk as she walked by, but still, their mere presence was a complication.

S’Leah followed the Princess striding unconcernedly nude through the hallways of the house into her quarters, hearing the guards close the double doors behind them.  The thought came to her that the Princess’ slim hips and buttocks were more boyish than those of Kyuri.  It brought a smile to her face.

S’Leah quickly scanned the big room for any statua, but they appeared to be alone.  The Princess apparently preferred stone to flesh, as dozens of stone sculptures, from a few inches high to near life-size, dotted her sleeping quarters.  The single figurines depicted unusual fetishettes, and were extraordinarily detailed.  About a third of the artworks portrayed two or more figures engaged in carnal acts, and one breathtaking lifesize piece in the center of the room depicted lady Decisa, first Matriarch of Clan Ophidi, being embraced and penetrated by too many snakes to count.

The Princess led her to a massive bed, high up off the floor.  S’Leah, erect again, dropped her robe and climbed up beside Sucette.  They kissed passionately and fondled each other for a while, then S’leah laid back and the Princess climbed atop her face.  S’Leah worried at the little nub between the Princess’ skinny thighs, and licked at the lipless crack below it.  The Princess licked and sucked at S’Leah’s shaft, but had no skill.  Soon she tired of it and climbed off, wanting to be poled.

“No, not yet,” S’Leah scolded her with a grin.  “You come lay here, on your back, and lay your head over the edge.  You should learn how to do this right.  For me,” she urged.

Sucette was more than ready to be spitted, but she acquiesced and lay on her back with her head just over the edge of the mattress.  The angle made her throat one long, straight tunnel.

“That’s it,” S’Leah said, moving in.  “Now just suck for a while, while I move.”  She slid her cock into the Princess’ inexperienced mouth.  Nearly two thirds of the shaft disappeared between her lips before the Princess gagged a little and raised her hands to push S’Leah away.

S’Leah backed off slightly and pushed the hands down.  “Just relax,” she told her.  “I won’t hurt you.  Just concentrate on breathing, and opening your throat.”  She began sliding back and forth, gently, and laid her hands on either side of the Princess’ neck.  Sucette diligently sucked, and tried to relax and breathe, as S’Leah slowly worked half her length back and forth in her mouth and the top part of her throat.

“Good, good,” S’Leah said, edging a bit deeper.  “Just relax now, and concentrate.”  She kept her hands on the Princess’ neck, and pressed her thumbs against her skin just above her collar bones.  The Princess felt the pressure, but it didn’t distract her from the skill she was trying to master.

“Good, that’s good,” S’Leah said, pumping, pumping, edging ever deeper.  “Envision your throat opening, a tunnel all the way into your chest.”

S’Leah’s voice grew softer, ever softer, until finally in mid-stroke the Princess’ head fell limp.  S’Leah’s thumbs, gently pressing on her carotid arteries, had slowly robbed the Princess’ brain of blood, until finally she’d just passed out.  If she let go, the Princess would regain consciousness in a few short minutes.  If she kept the pressure on her thumbs, the Princess would die.

S’Leah looked down at the slack pale body, its ribs and hipbones in sharp detail, legs splayed out on the bed.  She could feel her heart still pumping, lungs still working, breath cooling her organ as it hovered inside her slack mouth.  Then S’Leah lifted her thumbs, and moved her hands to the Princess’ small breasts.  They filled her palms comfortably as she pushed forward, sliding her entire length down the Princess’ throat.

Her balls rested against Sucette’s nose as she leaned forward, cock wedged tight inside her throat.  S’Leah played with the Princess’ breasts, waiting.  She studied the sculpture of Lady Decisa on the far side of the bed and tried to count the snakes.  The number was twelve or thirteen, she’d finally decided, when the Princess bucked, as her body instinctively fought for air.  She bit down once, but not hard enough to break the skin.  S’Leah held on for two more thrashing seizures, forcing her cock hard down Sucette’s throat, then the Princess was still.

S’Leah counted to three hundred, then checked the Princess’ pulse.  Nothing.  Her heart had stopped with her lungs, and was now too far gone to save.  She cupped the Princess’ small breasts again, then quickly finished herself off with a series of rapid thrusts, trying to imagine what so many snakes curling around and in her body would feel like.  The Princess’ pale body jiggled on the crushed red velvet bedspread.

When she had finished, S’Leah quickly wrestled the body underneath the covers and positioned the Princess with her head on the pillows.  Her eyes wouldn’t quite close, but from across the room she looked like she was sleeping.

S’Leah tucked in the skinny body, then went prowling around the adjoining rooms.  After half an hour she had found nothing satisfactory.  S’Leah sat on the edge of the bed and thought.  There was no immediate need to hurry, but she couldn’t dawdle.  She could get back to her room unmolested, but leaving the house at this hour would draw attention.  Staying until morning, however, was not an option.  The Princess’ body would be discovered, and even though there was no visible cause of death, the guards would remember her as the last to be with their Mistress.

After several minutes sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing, S’Leah realized she could hear, faintly, other noises in the big house.  She cocked her head and listened for several minutes.  Then she nodded, put the red robe back on, and strode to the door.  The guards, for their part, pretended not to see her even as they ogled her firm cheeks all the way out of sight.

 

 

 

                                 THE LOST PRINCE—CHAPTER 21

 

Daka rubbed his eyes and tried to stay alert as the last piece of luggage was loaded onto the carriage.  He’d been half asleep helping the StableMistress hook the ponies up to the new coach, but he’d performed the task so many times his brain didn’t need to be fully in gear.

Lady Koho’s two splendid mounts were in the lead, followed by Sempai Nodo’s four mismatched ponies, donated to her by the royal stable.  They were all late-generation stock, but did not fit together in size or looks.  One tall skinny blonde, one thick brunette with large, tattooed breasts (obviously a gift from some minor padisha living near the edges of the kingdom), one high-gen dark-skinned beauty with huge thighs and a brilliant smile, who’d tried to rub her mound against Daka even at this early hour, and finally, the first asian-stock mount he’d seen in close to a decade.  The Asians were too short to be good ponies, and most were found in household staffs or in the ranks of assaya.  This one was short too, but not so much that she wouldn’t be able to keep in stride with the other ponies.  She was skinny, with thick thighs and the upper body of a man.  Daka had never seen a pony so totally breastless.

The driver was a young soldier who also served as Sempai Nodo’s bodyguard.  As an old historian with little money and less property she thought the idea of a bodyguard ludicrous, but it was a royal decree that all court personnel have a guard west of the river.  And the Sempai wasn’t so old she couldn’t find some use for a handsome young man required to obey all her commands.  He finished tying down the bags and then sat on the bench, ready to be off.  From the way he held the reins Daka could tell he knew less about ponies than he did soldiering.

Uma was sorry to see Daka go, but did her best to hide it.  He was the property of another mistress, and she showed no signs of wanting to let him stay on as a stablehand.  She desperately needed one, now that Ranyo was to be shipped off to a seed farm, as soon as he finished laying with the clan women, each in her time.  None were supposed to be fertile, but then, neither was he.  Including ponies and assayan novices old enough to bleed, Ranyo had over three hundred women to service, and a schedule of their fertile times was being drawn up.  Even laying with a woman thrice a day Ranyo would be kept busy for nearly half a year, and would be exempt from his stable duties.

“Cool water, downhill road, and frisky mounts at the end of the day,” Uma said to him, a traditional stable cheer to those about to embark on a journey.  Daka, surprised, bowed, then opened his mouth and tried to think of something to say in turn.  Uma grabbed his shoulder and pushed him toward the carriage.  “Go,” she said with an exasperated smile.  She regretted not having a go at his big tool, but she always had the ridged pole in the rear stall.  Maybe some day they would meet again.

The Lady Lena had come to see Lady Koho off, as had the Lady Roba.  Both had been shown the cut up futons tossed about Lady Koho’s room when she returned in the morning.  The window was open, and the furniture had been strewn about as if by a storm.  A storm with knives in it.  No one in the house had heard a thing.

“Speed and Luck,” was all Lady Roba would say.  She blinked slowly in the early morning light and tugged her robe closer around her.  She was not normally an early riser.

“Speed and Luck and all else I could give you,” Lady Lena said, bowing to Daka’s mistress and the Sempai, who seemed bright and cheerful in the misty cool air.  “You have not told me all that transpired,” she went on, holding up a hand, “and that has been for a reason, I am sure.  Go now, and be safe.  Remember the circle, and you will be well.”

“You honor me, as you have always done,” Lady Koho said in return, with her own bow.

“And you have honored us with your presence,” Lady Lena said to Sempai Nodo.  “Your knowledge and guidance will be missed.  May your trip be swift and easy.”

Sempai Nodo bowed again, as did her student, and they climbed into the carriage.

“Lady Hirondelle is traveling your road,” Lady Lena told Daka’s mistress, “but will not be leaving until mid-day at the earliest.”

“The others are leaving then also?”

“Today and tomorrow.  Lady Main seems in no hurry, and Lady Rosetta has but a short trip.”

Lady Koho nodded, then hugged and kissed both Lady Lena and Lady Roba.  “Forever the circle,” she said.  She pushed Daka toward the carriage, and he clumsily climbed inside and sat facing the historian and her student.  His Mistress exchanged a few quiet words with the two Ladies, then climbed into the coach and shut the door.  Lady Lena waved, then nodded at the driver.  The coach lurched forward and Daka watched out the window as the buildings grew smaller.  In a minute they passed through the gate, and then he could see naught of the compound but the high wall, and its wide gates swinging shut.

The Sempai’s assistant was a mousy young woman, pale and skinny, with short hair that looked like it had been cut by a dull hatchet.  She wore plain grey robes, and spent most of the time staring at her hands.

The coach featured two opposing benches, each wide enough for three adults to sit, with enough room between them so that everyone could stretch their legs without kicking each other.  Daka gave it a brief onceover out of curiosity, but was too tired to concentrate.  While his Mistress had had no problem falling right to sleep the night before, he’d been unable to tear his eyes from Lady Roba and the novice cavorting with her pets.  The dogs were nearly as intelligent as men, or so well trained in the acts of pleasure as to seem so, and performed as well together as they did apart.  They’d stayed busy until near dawn, and he doubted his eyes had been closed more than thirty minutes before the handmaiden had entered the room to help bathe and dress his Mistress.

“Daka.”

He jerked up, not knowing when his eyes had closed.

“Yes M’Lady?”

“Did you get any sleep last night?”

“Some.”

Lady Koho shook her head.  “Lay down and get some sleep,” she told him.  “You are asleep on your feet.  I had forgotten how entertaining well-trained pets can be.  I’ll awaken you if I need you.”

“Yes M’Lady,” he mumbled.  He lay down and curled up on the padded seat.  He was asleep in seconds.

“We have three days to Perle, with only water stations and small hamlets in between,” the Sempai observed, eyeing Daka’s sleeping form.  “Then another three, with good weather, to Gardene and, beyond that, Clan Bukkake’s house.”  She caught Lady Koho’s eye, then gave a barely perceptible nod toward her assistant.  “We need to know, and soon.”

Lady Koho eyed the mousy woman, and tried to hide a smile.  “Pipa, was it?  Have you ever been to the seed farms before?”

The wan girl looked up briefly, very self-conscious, and shook her head.  “No M’Lady,” she said quietly.

“Pipa’s never been more than a few miles from the palace,” the Sempai told her, suppressing a grin.  “Our trip west was quite an eye-opening experience for her.”

Lady Koho bit her lip to keep from laughing.  “And more still to come, I’m sure.”

 

 

S’Leah returned with two rabbits she’d killed with thrown rocks, but they’d yet to locate any water.  The women rested in the small dell through the hottest part of the day, then moved out again when the sun began to sink in the sky.

S’Leah’s plan was to head northwest for several days, paralleling the northbound road out of sight to the west of them.  At Big Fork she assumed Izumi would take the north road and head back to her countrymen.  S’Leah would be taking the other road, heading straight northeast.

She estimated it was a hundred miles from Clan Infibula’s compound to Big Fork.  There there was a large water station and eatery, if by then they could risk being seen.  But they would need water before then.

It was near midnight when the women stumbled onto a small stream running east.  It was only a few inches deep, and just two feet across, but the water was clean and cold.  They feel to their hands and knees and drank and drank, then finally fell backwards onto the grassy bank.

“We’ll rest here,” S’Leah said.  “Drink all you can, as often as you can, for we have nothing with which to carry water other than our bodies.”

They sat on the bank, staring upward at the stars or across the rolling, dark plains, every few minutes moving to the stream to drink.  After half an hour S’Leah felt like a balloon, she’d drunk so much water, and moved off to urinate, for the first time in thirty-six hours.  When she pulled up her trousers and moved back to the stream she saw Izumi staring at her.

“You piss as a woman,” Izumi said with some confusion.  “Can you not pass water through your tool?”

S’Leah sat down and leaned back on her elbows.  “Only with great difficulty,” she admitted.

Izumi crossed her legs and leaned forward.  “How did you come by your stick and stones?”

“The royal chemists weren’t as all-knowing as they thought they were,” S’Leah said with a trace of bitterness.

“You were a pony!” Izumi said, the pieces finally falling into place.  S’Leah didn’t respond.  After a while Izumi looked down and began pulling at the grass blades.

“I was traveling west from the river when my troupe was attacked,” Izumi said.  “They came in after dark and overran our tents.  There were maybe thirty of us, and only a dozen or so of them, but they had weapons, which we did not, and the element of surprise.”

“Who were they?” S’Leah asked.  Izumi shrugged.

“Some wandering pack, I don’t know.  Barbarians,” she spat.  “They killed most of the men, and a few women who fought too much.  They pulled the tent down around me, and tied me before I could run or fight.  They had been heading south, and continued that way with us.  Every few days we’d meet up with another band traveling the same road, and they’d sell one or two of us.  By the time we entered the Queen’s realm there was just me and three others left.  I was sold to Princess Cutlips, and Anja was sold to a local.  The band kept Richard—they’d grown quite fond of him by that time.  And Isma.”  Izumi shook her head.

“Were you part of a caravan?” S’Leah asked her.  Izumi moved off and drank at length from the stream.  When she returned she lay on her back and laced her fingers behind her head.  The sky was cloudless and filled with stars.

“Cirque Bizar,” she said finally.  “Not that big or successful, but we were finally drawing some notice east of the River, north of the Realm.  We were told the high road to the west was safe.”

“Nothing is ever safe,” S’Leah said.  Izumi barked out a harsh laugh.  “You were a performer?” S’Leah asked her.

Izumi in response sat up and unbuttoned the jacket.  As quick as a snap of the fingers she folded one leg behind her back, then the other.  She lay back on them, her ankles crossed below her shoulder blades.  She placed the flat of one hand at the small of her back and curled forward, and laid one light kiss on the lips of her own sex.

“Twister,” she said, pulling her head back.  She took the hand from the small of her back and pulled upward on the taut skin of her mound.  Her sex was a bulging purse of flesh, and when she tugged her hooded slit rose upward.  A stream of urine shot from her, arcing ten feet into the air and coming down in a stream nearly as narrow as when it had left her body.  Izumi caught the stream in her mouth, but only for a second, then rolled to the side and emptied the rest of her bladder out across the grass.  “And Pisseuse,” she added after swallowing, and still the stream continued, a curving, glittering arc splashing down a dozen feet from where Izumi lay.  In distance alone she was impressive, but the sheer quantity of the stream was amazing.  It shut off as if from a tap, and Izumi unwrapped her legs.  She wiped her chin with her palm.

“I’m still dry,” Izumi said.  “For a proper display I’d need to stay here all night drinking.  I can stretch my bladder until it looks as if I am with child.”

“That was impressive enough,” S’Leah told her, thinking that to get that much height with her stream, Izumi’s bladder had to be the strongest muscle in her body.

“I’d do all sorts of tricks, twist myself into all sorts of shapes and hit a spittoon across the stage, mouths in the audience,” Izumi said.  “We all had our specialties.  Anja was hairy as a bear, Rika was a dwarf that appeared to be just a young girl.  She dearly loved shocking people, and did quite well after the shows with men who still hadn’t figured out she wasn’t a child.”

“I would imagine so.”

“Mickelou and his wife Inka were jugglers and fire eaters,” she went on.  Izumi paused, and looked down.  “Micky tried to defend her when we were attacked, and they killed him.  Inka fought so hard after that they beat her unconscious and left her for dead in the middle of our campsite.  Wallo was an acrobat, and I think they killed him too.  I never saw him after the attack.”

“Had you no weapons at all?  No sentries posted?”

“Sentries?” Izumi tried to smile wryly, but it came out a grimace.  “The thought never crossed our minds.  We were thirty strong, what could we possibly have to worry about?”

“The West is not the East.  And the Wasteland is something else entirely.”

“So I’ve seen.”  Izumi shook her head.  “We should never have come west of the river.  Cirque Bizar,” she said with a snort.  “Except for Isma, we’d all just blend right in.”

“You’ve said that name before.’

Izumi nodded.  “She and Richard were still captive when I was sold off.  He’s a true freak of nature, with an organ as large as a man’s fist and forearm.  It was so large it took him half an hour to get hard, but in fair trade he could last for hours.  His size was such that it frightened most women, instead of exciting them.  The band that captured us, three quarters of them were women, the roughest kind you can picture.  I can’t imagine what they must have lived through to turn them into such callous beasts.  They couldn’t keep their hands off Richard, even though only a few of them could fit him inside themselves, and none to the base.”

“And Isma?”

“I think when she was just an infant her parents were killed in a raid, somewhere near the mountains, by a clan that had reverted back into mysticism and savagery.  They kidnapped her, and then treated her as a sort of good luck charm, a symbol of their success in war.  They never thought of her as a person, only an object.  Never taught her how to speak, or write, and covered her from head to toe in tattoos and scar patterns that are the most amazing thing you’ve ever seen.  Her entire body, including her face.  Tattooed, and pierced dozens of times.

“Before any significant event, the clansmen would fuck her for good luck, dip their knives and clubheads in her sex before a battle for the same reason.  She was captured by another group during a raid, was used as a seed receptacle by their men for two years, traded, sold, until somehow she found her way to us.  After all that, life in our circus seemed pleasant to her.  If just her mere appearance wasn’t enough to entertain the crowd she would eat for them.”

“Eat?  Eat what?”

“Whatever they wanted.  Garbage, worms, dirt, shit, anything and everything.  The band that attacked us liked her because no matter what they made her do, or did to her, she didn’t seem to care.”  Izumi’s expression in the dark was hard to read.  “She cared.”

S’Leah looked up at the stars, and found her bearings.  She stood up.  “Time to go.”

 

 

 

 

Compared to the Waste, the north country was as green and fertile as a garden, with gentle rolling hills and occasional clumps of short, slender trees.  The first two days passed uneventfully.  The road was wide and in good repair, with pumps or water stations at regular intervals.  Several times a day they passed coaches heading south.  Daka caught a glimpse of young feminine faces in the carriage windows as they went by, but they did not stop.

The first night they’d stopped to sleep at a tiny water station, attended by a gruff grey-haired man missing his right leg below the knee.  After a lean meal the others had gone to sleep inside on beds while Daka attended to the ponies in the rickety stable.  The driver tried to help, but he was close to useless, and Daka soon bid him leave.

Daka’s awakening to ponies as something more distracted him as he washed and fed the mounts, especially with the dark-skinned beauty constantly trying to rub herself against him.  In the end he strung her up and worked on her sweet spot as Uma had taught him, until with flashing teeth and scissoring thighs she climaxed.

When he lowered the black-skinned pony Daka discovered the other ponies had all become somewhat frisky watching him work on their teammate.  It had aroused him too, and his cock fought against the rings with every beat of his heart.  However, he had neither the energy nor the inclination to stroke the sweet spots of five more mounts, so he led them into the one big stall that was there, unhooked their leads, and closed the door.

The ponies still wore their armbinders and gags, but were otherwise nude.  Their corsets, harnesses, and boots were all draped over a metal bar, drip-drying after being washed.  Once inside the stall and free to move about, four of the ponies paired off, nuzzling ears and straddling thighs.  The odd one out, the brunette with the big tattooed breasts, came to Daka and began nuzzling his chest, looking up into his eyes.  She knelt down and turned her back to him, then tipped forward until her chest was on the floor.  She spread her knees as wide as they would go and waited expectantly.

Her brown folds were loose and wrinkled, and he played with them for a few minutes, kneeling down behind her.  He listened closely, in case one of the others came to check on him, but he believed they’d already all retired.  Inside, the pony was hot and wet, and she pushed her rump back against his hand, encouraging him to penetrate her.

Daka went to work on her sweet spot with the flats of two fingers, and her hole opened up to him.  He inserted a third finger, then a fourth, pressing down and rubbing her as he’d been taught.  The mount grunted and hunched against his hand, which began to slosh loudly around in her as her excitement grew.  Her juices were dripping off his palm, and suddenly he found his entire hand was inside her.  He stared at the odd sight of his forearm ending at her slick folds.  Her flesh was snug and wet, gripping his loose fist like a heated glove.  The sensation of having his entire hand in her was very strange to him, and he twisted it slowly left and right.  Her flesh rippled around his knuckles, and her sex pulsed, as if it were a mouth trying to swallow him.  The pony began to buck wildly back onto his arm, groaning happily around her gag.

Daka paused, and a grin crept across his face.  Past his pony the other four were writhing on the floor, awkwardly grinding their mounds against each others’ thighs, panting and sighing around their gags.  The air was close with their scent, and he took a deep breath, then bent back over the pony wrapped around his hand.

The second night of the journey their group camped around a lone pump adjacent to the road.  Lady Koho slept alone in the carriage, while Sempai Nodo retired to her tent with the driver.  Daka sat beside the fire with the Sempai’s timid assistant, Pipa, and listened to the sounds of enthusiastic lovemaking inside the tent.  Pipa was beside herself with embarrassment, but all Daka could do was try to imagine what the body of a woman as old as the Sempai looked like.  Wrinkled and saggy, of that much he was sure.  The boisterous and occasionally wet sounds from the tent didn’t disturb the ponies sleeping in a circle around the fire, tired after an especially long day over hilly ground.

Daka looked up as he heard the tent flap open, and the Sempai stuck her upper body out.  Her hair was mussed, her face flushed, her small breasts even more wrinkled and saggy than Daka had imagined.  Her eyes sought out her aide.

“Pipa,” she commanded.  “Come over here.”

Pipa, mortified at the sight of her mentor’s bare breasts, stared at her hands, but shuffled over to the tent.  There was a brief, fervent discussion, during which Pipa seemed to shrink in stature, then the Sempai scooted to the side.  Slowly, reluctantly, the assistant bent down and stepped into the tent.

Sempai Nodo gave Daka a brief look, then disappeared back into the tent.  Whispers, fierce murmuring, the rustling of clothes, then finally the rhythmic sound Daka recognized.  Eyes heavy, he lay on the ground and went to sleep, the sounds from inside the tent fading into the darkness.

 

 

 

                                    THE LOST PRINCE—CHAPTER 22

 

 

They spotted the fancy coach about halfway between Lake City and Crosstown, heading west.  They were about one hundred and fifty miles north of Lady Rosetta’s compound, deep in the wilds of Clan Infibula’s territory.  Settlements were scarce, and the two hundred and fifty miles of road stretching between Lake City and Crosstown sported no towns, no camps—hardly any water stations.

The coach was maybe twenty miles from the last station, with another twenty to the next, when they’d spotted its dust cloud.  Even from a distance they could see it was a pricey roller.  Through his binocs Jackstraw could see the markings of the Palace on the coach doors.

“We’ve hit it big,” he whistled.

He’d climbed to the top of a small rise, laying on his stomach to prevent being spotted.  The coach was perhaps a half mile off, and was big even at that distance.  A team of eight led it, and they were some of the sharpest looking ponies he’d ever seen.

“Marco!” he called down the slope.  Marco was sprawled across the top of their own coach, hidden in a small dried-up streambed.

“What?”

“How far up does this gully meet the road?”

“The bridge?  Three miles, maybe.”

“Can we get there without being spotted by them?  Does the bed stay this deep?”  If not, they’d have to shadow the coach at a great distance and wait until nightfall.

Marco sat up and scratched the stubble on his chin, then eyed their ponies.  They were tired, but not too tired.

“I think so.  But we’ll have to race if we’re to beat them.  The bed twists and turns, even if it is flat as a road.”  For once the smallness of their coach would be an advantage.

Ramni, squatting halfway down the slope, finished urinating and stood up.  “Let’s go then,” she growled, tugging her leathyrs up over her massive thighs.  Her piercings jingled.  “What’s it look like?” she asked Straw, who came sliding down the slope.  As big and broad as she was he still dwarfed her.  His blue eyes burned with excitement.

“Money,” he said, then barked out a harsh laugh.

 

 

The bridge was a short wooden structure that was hardly necessary now that the stream was dry, but Straw was glad it was there.  He and Marco hid under the far end of the span, each to a side, while Ramni and Gui hid under the near end, the end the coach would reach first.  The plan was to trap the coach on the bridge itself.  At its highest it was a mere fifteen feet from the dry streambed, but that was enough to discourage jumpers.  Their own small coach and team was hidden around a bend of the stream.  Straw hadn’t even bothered to hobble them—his mares had been broken to the twizzler long ago.  Meat was inside the coach, sleeping probably; Ramni and Gui had toyed with her all night and morning until someone had spotted the dust cloud.

“About a quarter mile out,” Ramni whispered to him, after peeking her head up above the slope.  Straw nodded.  He could hear the approaching coach now, a faint rumble that soon would dissolve into a steady tempo of hoofboots on hardpacked dirt.  What such a showy coach with Palace markings was doing way out here he had no idea.  The fact that it had no escort coach filled with guards, and only one driver visible (even if it was a male), showed either ignorance of the inherent dangers of the western territories, or arrogance—after all, who would attack a Royal coach?

Straw took a few deep breaths and glanced at Marco.  Marco grinned back, his teeth just visible in the gloom under the bridge.  The sound of the approaching coach grew louder and louder, and Straw could make out the jingling of their harnesses.  Then suddenly the underpass echoed with thunder as the team ran onto the bridge, their hoofboots thudding on the wood beams.

Straw rolled out one direction, Marco the other.  By the time they scrambled up and onto the bridge the team was in the middle of the span.  Ramni and Gui appeared behind the coach as the two men yelled and brandished their lightning rods.

The two lead ponies jerked in surprise.  As high-gen as they were, Straw doubted they’d ever seen any danger.  As he ran toward them yelling, the lead four dug their boots into the wood.  The driver, mouth open in surprise, flew from his perch atop the coach as its speed was instantly halved.  One of the ponies went down on a knee but was back up by the time the coach was stopped. 

The driver landed head-down with an audible crunch.  Marco flipped him over with a boot, but the man was already dead.  His head hung at an odd angle.  Marco grabbed the bit of the nearest pony and yanked downward.

“On your knees!  Drop to your knees!” he yelled, brandishing the rod.  The team quickly obeyed, even thought it was obvious some of them didn’t know what he was waving about.

Straw rushed to the coach and yanked at the door.  Unlocked—would you believe it?  He sprang into the spacious interior, rod at the ready.

As his eyes adjusted to the darker interior he saw a young woman in robes sprawled on hands and knees from the sudden stop.  Before her was an old woman, on her back on the seat, one hand pressed flat to her chest.  It appeared she’d been speaking before he opened the door.

The old woman looked at Straw, then at the young woman, then back at Straw.  Her face was ghostly white, and her lips were darkening, almost purple in hue.  Her hand stayed pressed to her chest.

“I’m Lady Minok,” the scrawny woman gasped.  “Fourth in line.”  Her arm where it sprang from her sleeve was thin as a branch and lined with unsightly veins.  A bubble formed in the corner of her mouth and Straw watched her eyes roll back.  “Ggggkk.”  She slumped bonelessly onto the bench, and didn’t move.  Straw lowered the rod in surprise.

Ramni pushed her upper body into the open doorway, saw Straw had things under control, and disappeared.  He could hear the thumps as she and Gui started going through the luggage on the roof and in the rear compartment.

Keeping an eye on the young woman, Straw edged over to the prostrate spinster and touched a hand to her throat.  The other backed away from him and perched on the edge of the seat, throwing glances at the open doorway.

Straw pressed his ear to the old woman’s chest, then straightened up.  “Dead,” he said without preamble.  “Bad heart.”  He sat on the seat across from the coach’s other occupant and looked her up and down.  She wore a simple white robe made of an expensive-looking material, maybe silk.  Her light brown hair was straight and came down just to her shoulders.  The robe hid much, but she seemed slender and nicely shaped, with pale skin and pretty features.  Her brown eyes were guileless.

Straw smiled, leaned back with an expansive sigh, and then suddenly guffawed.  “Put away two without ever having to lay a finger on them,” he said, shaking his head.  “That’s a story I wouldn’t believe if it hadn’t happened to me.”  He looked at the young woman.  “So that was the Lady Minok,” he said, nudging the still warm corpse with a tow.  “What does that make you?”

“I’m—“ the young woman stopped with her mouth open, and glanced at the body sprawled ungainly across the seat.  “Lady Minok’s handmaiden,” she finished in a more subdued manner.  “Genia.  Who are you?  And what is the meaning of this outrage?”

It was ignorance, not arrogance, Straw decided.  She was just too young—and probably sheltered—to know how scared she should be.  She thought she could use her status as a Royal vassal to intimidate him.

“Outrage?  So far it’s only a conversation.  How old are you?”

The woman who called herself Genia decided there was no reason to lie about that.  “Eighteen,” she told him.  She’d never seen a man like him before.  Huge, wrapped in cracked leathyrs, dusty and smelling of sweat.  And with a thick black beard—she’d never seen a beard before.  He kept staring at her with piercing blue eyes—it made her uncomfortable.  She assumed they were bandits, thieves, this group.  What had happened to the driver she had no idea, she’d never heard him utter even a challenge.  Had he been in on this ambush?  Had she been betrayed?

“My, my, my,” Straw said, his eyes running up and down Genia, his smile widening.

Ramni jumped down off the roof and leaned into the coach.  Genia recoiled at the sight of the big, wild-looking woman.  She was as big as a big man, and dressed as one, in leathyr trousers and a black leathyr vest over bare skin.  The vest was open in front, revealing much of her large breasts.  They were sweaty and covered in road dust.  Her head was oversize, with brown hair pulled back into a short ponytail.  Genia was both repulsed and fascinated by the sight of her. 

Ramni ran her eyes up and down the young split while speaking.  “Even after we dump anything with the Royal Seal, we can live off just what the silks will bring in for months,” she told Straw.  “D’you see those ponies?”

Straw nodded.  “I want them too.  Send Gui back to our coach, and tell Marco he’s driving this one.  The mounts seem obedient enough, they shouldn’t give him any trouble.”

“This is probably the first time they’ve been west of the River.”

“Where were you going?” Straw asked Genia.

“To visit Clan Bukkake,” she told them.  “I—Lady Minok wanted to see the Inseminariums.”

“I bet she did,” Ramni said.  She saw the old woman still hadn’t moved.  “Did you hit her?”

Straw shook his head.  “Heart attack,” he explained.  He jumped down off the coach, grabbed one of the old woman’s skinny ankles, and dragged her body out the door.  It fell with a thump, arms akimbo, onto the road.  Genia watched this with a stunned expression, too shocked to even object.

Ramni had a funny smile on her broad face.  “Maybe if you’d yelled a little louder all three of them would have croaked off,” she told Straw.  “Pack it up and leave it where it is,” she called up to Gui, who was picking through an ornate chest.  “We’re taking the coach.”

“Good,” Gui called back.  She wore longsleeve canvas coveralls, brown, stained with dirt and sweat.  Her black hair was in a shaggy bowlcut, obscuring her face whenever she leaned forward.  Only her lined face betrayed her age, her wiry body could have been that of a woman half her age.  As she jumped down from the roof, barefoot as usual, Straw climbed back into the coach.

“You’re certainly not going to leave her there!” his young captive said indignantly, pointing at the body sprawled beside the coach.

“Sure I am.  It’ll give the buzzards something to eat.  Take off your clothes,” Straw told her.  He began unbuckling his leathyr jacket.  Her mouth opened in shock.

“I will not!” she said in outrage.  She sat rigid in her seat, haughty, then her eyes spotted the open carriage doorway.  She lunged for it.  Straw caught her easily with one arm around her chest and tossed her back into the coach.  She landed on her knees in front of the bench seat, and yelped in pain as Straw, with one big hand, pushed the side of her face into the seat.

“Hey!” she yelled.  “You--!”  With one locked arm he kept her head wedged against the seat.  With his other hand he began pulling her robe off.

She cursed and struggled, but her efforts were weak and half-hearted.  It was as if she couldn’t believe it was happening to her.

Under the robe she wore a whisper-thin white silk undershirt and shorts.  She had a nice shape, slender but not too skinny.  More to his liking, she was clean and smelled of flowers.

“You can’t rape me!” Genia protested, her face mashed against the seat cushion.  She’d stopped trying to pull away his hand and now gripped the edge of the seat with her fingers.

“So stop fighting, and then it won’t be rape,” Straw said with a wicked grin.  “You can’t rape the willing.”  It was one of his favorite phrases.  Ramni climbed into the coach and shut the door firmly.  She eyed the girl’s shapely backside sheathed in silk and sat out of the way in the corner.  The coach jerked into motion under Marco’s command.

Straw pulled Genia’s silk shorts down to her knees and then fumbled with his zipper.  “Don’t tell me you’re a virgin,” he said with a laugh.  Although if she said she was, and he believed her, he might have to leave her alone.  Virgins weren’t hard to come by in the western plains, but finding one her age was almost unheard of.  She could fetch a steep price.

“Well, no,” Genia said.  “But, I mean, it isn’t right!  Are you a barbarian?”

Straw spit onto his fingers and rubbed it onto his organ, then spit again and worked it into her folds.  Genia gasped, more out of the shock at being touched there than anything else.

“If I was I wouldn’t have used spit,” Straw said with a grin. 

Ramni snorted.  “All this outrage from someone riding in a coach being pulled by eight humans trussed up like livestock,” she spat.

Straw pressed the head of his cock between Genia’s thighs and pushed in.  Genia gasped again, but not in pain.  He had used more than enough spit, because as far as Straw was concerned a dry split just wasn’t any fun.

Keeping one hand pressed hard against her head Straw began roughly stroking in and out of her.  Genia cried out at his first pump, and stiffened.  She tried to pull her hips away from him, but had nowhere to go.  She cursed, but seemed uncomfortable saying the words.

She might not’ve been a virgin, but she sure hadn’t been used much.  Her glove was nicely snug around his organ as he pumped her.  “Nice,” he told her, intending it as a compliment.  Straw reached underneath her, inside her silk undershirt, and squeezed Genia’s breast.  Grunting with each impact of his loins, Genia gripped the seat edge until her knuckles turned white.  She was panting as Straw Bent over her, and he could see her staring at the wall.  She’d stopped fighting, stopped cursing, and Straw figured she’d accepted that events were beyond her control.  Then he noticed something else.

“You’re all wet!” he said in surprise.  And not just wet—her hole had loosened up around him as well, sure sign she was nowhere near tense.  It couldn’t just be inexperience—she had to be downright stupid.  Captured by bandits, her Mistress dead . . . didn’t she know they could just as well have killed her as taken her along?  What the hell was she doing getting wet during a rape?  Had she no sense of self-preservation?

Genia didn’t respond, and looked as much away from him as she could.  She said nothing.  For once in her life something exciting was happening to her!  She couldn’t help but respond—it had been too long for her, and the amusements west of the River had been sorely lacking.  She’d never had a hairy man, didn’t like hairy men, but that was a minor point when compared to the size of him, his forcefulness, his willingness to treat her like a toy, use her for his own pleasure.  The thought of what might be in store for her had her on the edge already.  Not danger—she knew they’d never really hurt her.  If only he knew . . . but no, she couldn’t tell him.  And she had to try to restrain her impulses, they might get her in trouble.

“You’re kidding,” Ramni said.

“The little twist likes it!” Straw said, fucking harder.  “She’s a swamp.”  He came with loud grunts, banging hard against Genia’s ass.

“You’re not using the twizzler?” Ramni said in disbelief.  Straw checked the controls of the metal web covering the back of his right hand.

“No.”

Breathing hard, he pulled out of the young handmaiden and sat on the edge of the seat.  Her ass cheeks were pink where he’d been banging against them, and the dark furrow between her legs glistened.

“Come over here and clean off my cock with your tongue,” he ordered Genia.  She slowly straightened up, and half turned toward him.  There was a lot of color on her cheeks, and her nipples were hard against the silk undershirt.

“No,” she said firmly, glancing at his slimy tool.  “I won’t do that.  I—“  Ramni grabbed her shoulder and shoved her toward Straw.

“What’s the matter, too good to suck cock?” Ramni snarled.

Straw turned on the twizzler, set it to one-tenth power, and placed his hand on Genia’s shoulder.

“Trust me, you’ll really like it,” he said with a knowing grin.

As soon as his hand had drawn near, even before it touched her shoulder, Genia’s expression had gone soft.  She looked down at his half-hard, slimy cock laying in a bed of midnight black pubic hair, and shuddered. 

“I—I’m not going to service . . . . ” she stuttered.  “That’s not what . . . .”

Straw removed his hand, and suddenly she felt empty, depressed.

“All I want you to do is suck it,” Straw said again, switching the twizzler to one-quarter power and touching her again, this time placing his hand on the top of her head.  The joy that had coursed through her before now bloomed again.  She was not only aroused, wet and throbbing, she was happy, happy in a way she hadn’t been in years, since she was a little girl.  The feeling that flowed through her, it was like nothing had ever been wrong or ever could go wrong.  Under the gentle pressure of his hand she bent forward and put her mouth on his wet cock head, and it tasted horrible.  She made a face and straightened up, and the sense of joy and pleasure and well-being suddenly vanished.  She felt empty, and wanted to cry.

“Suck my cock and it’ll make you happy,” Straw told her.  He kept his hand to one side.  He wanted her to take the initiative, make the move, it would mean that the hold he’d have over her would just be that much stronger.

The twizzler was a simple device.  It electrically stimulated the pleasure center of the brain.  When turned to full power the person receiving the signal froze in ecstasy that was far beyond that of a simple orgasm.  It was everything that gave them pleasure and joy—food, music, sex—times one thousand.  The tool had been developed to train difficult ponies, but their use was discouraged as the mounts tended to become addicted.

Straw had bent all the women in his group to his will with the twizzler, even the ponies.  Ramni hated him for it, for making her a slave to her desire for just one more jolt.  She’d thought of killing him and cutting it off his hand, but knew it ran off the electricity his body generated, and wouldn’t work for anyone else.  She didn’t have the skills to reprogram it, so she was a willing slave to it, and Straw.

Genia’s head slowly bent down, and the second her lips touched him his hand touched the top of her head.  She stiffened as much in pleasure as surprise as the sensations of the twizzler at one-tenth power buzzed through her head.

“Yes, that’s good, good,” he crooned to Genia.  The taste, the texture, the smell of him repulsed her, but still she found herself enjoying the act, and the harder she worked at pleasing him the more pleasure it brought her.  She had seen the act performed hundreds of times, of course, but this was a first for her.  She was awkward, and forgot her teeth at times, but the more she threw herself into it the more pleasure wracked her body.

“Oh yeah, oh yeah, take it you little twist,” Straw growled, as Genia pounded her face down on his stiff cock.  Strings of drool ran from her lips to his balls as she labored under the twizzler set on one-third power, applied directly to her head.  He’d been told one-third felt like being on the verge of orgasm while being told you were suddenly Royal rich.  He couldn’t use the twizzler on himself—and didn’t want to—but the information was useful.

Ramni took off her leathyr vest, revealing pendulous breasts whose nipples sported multiple piercings—two holes per nipple, one horizontal, one vertical, each filled with two or three rings or barbells.  She stood up to take off her dusty leathyr pants, revealing a forest of piercings between her legs, so many they’d stretched her labia grotesquely.  Most were rings or barbells.  From several hung small pointed lead weights on short chains that she ducked down her pantlegs when clothed.

Ramni hated piercings, thought they were ugly and useless, and had said as much soon after meeting Straw and his band of outlaws.  That was before she’d experienced the twizzler.  Ramni had done all the piercings herself.  Each one meant five minutes of the twizzler at full power, but she was running out of places to pierce.  Her ears were full, as were her nipples, and there was so much steel between her legs she couldn’t close them properly—she jingled when she walked.  Her nose was next, she’d decided, then her eyebrows.  The four studs in her tongue were more than she had room for, really; the last had migrated out, leaving her with a tiny fork in her tongue.

She knelt behind Genia and eyed her appraisingly.  Her fingers were broad and calloused, like a man’s, but they slid easily into the young woman’s folds.  Genia groaned and continued her frantic head bobbing.

“She’s like a waterfall,” Ramni told him.  Straw could hear the squelching as Ramni worked her fingers inside their new find.  He smiled, and began instructing his charge on the finer techniques of fellatio.  She was energetic, but lacked skill.  That, he knew, would change quickly.

 

 

 

 

 

                                        THE LOST PRINCE—CHAPTER 23

 

Contented with the large portion of jerky he’d been allowed to eat during the midday meal, Daka sank contentedly onto his seat as the carriage jerked forward.  According to the maps they had twenty-two miles to cover before the next water station, where they planned to stop for the night, which meant traveling at least three hours before the next rest break.

The Sempai seemed unruffled by her late night, but her aide was even more withdrawn than usual.  What exactly had happened in the tent Daka didn’t know, but he’d seen enough in his short life to make a good guess.  Pipa stared at the floor, never once looking up, her hands clasped in her lap.

The Sempai and Daka’s Mistress kept exchanging cryptic looks all through the morning.  As the ponies jerked the carriage forward once more the women exchanged another look.

“Daka, take off your clothes,” Lady Koho ordered.

His head jerked up, a look of surprise on his face.  “What M’lady?”

“Take off your clothes,” she repeated.  “It has come to our attention that young Pipa here has a serious lack of sexual experience, which could hamper her objectivity at the seed farm.”  Daka loosened his robe and pulled it over his head, not sure exactly what was coming next.  Pipa sank even lower in her seat and looked to be trying to pull her head inside her robe.

The Sempai looked him over with a blank gaze, thinking that the robe disguised just how muscled Daka’s lean body was.  She’d seen huge numbers of bare young men as part of her duties, and physically, in comparison, Daka was unremarkable.  The hopes and expectations heaped on him, however, added unexpected emphasis to everything he did and was.  The tattoo on his shoulder appeared exactly as it should, but she didn’t want to display too much interest in it.  Not yet.

“That too,” Lady Koho said, nodding.  Daka looked down at his loincloth, then back up at the audience.  With a mental shrug he undid the knot and pulled his loincloth off too, tossing it onto the robe piled on the seat.  The two women stared at him, frankly evaluating all that he had uncovered.  Daka wasn’t sure what he should be doing, or what he should look at.  It seemed safe to watch Pipa, who was trying to disappear inside her robes.

The Sempai tilted her head to the side and squinted.  “Ringed?”

“Yes,” Lady Koho said.

“I had forgotten.  Wise decision.  Well, we’ll need a container.”

Daka’s Mistress produced an ornamental teacup, handleless, glazed a cherry red.  “Will this do?  Do we need something . . . specific?”

“The legend does not say.  I suppose this should do as well as anything . . . unless it needs to be delivered directly, with no waystation in-between.  Again, the legend does not say.  I suppose we may have to experiment.”  She took the cup, stared into it for a few seconds, then handed it to Daka.  He examined the cup curiously.  Pipa peeked out from under her bangs, saw Daka was still nude, and ducked down again.

“Fill it with your seed,” his Mistress told Daka.  Confusion knit his eyebrows together, and he looked into the cup again.

“My seed?”

“Yes.”

There was a long pause.  “You want me to fill this?  Um . . . .”

“No, not fill it,” his Mistress said, losing some of her composure.  “But put your seed in it.  Stroke yourself.  We need your seed for . . . something.”  This dunce was supposed to be the Lost Prince, the latest in the true bloodline?

“And you are to watch,” the Sempai ordered her assistant, who had nearly disappeared inside her robe.  Pipa cheeped and twitched.  “You were an embarrassment to me last night, and I will not have it happen again.  How are you to learn of the world if you never look past your nose?  Such a commotion over what should be as natural to you as breathing.  Do you want another hiding?  Your bottom still must be striped from last night.  No?  Then sit up, pull that hair out of your eyes, and watch.”

Daka was at a loss as to how to proceed.  The ringing left his organ curved unnaturally.  Not only did it keep him from inserting his tool into anything, it made it very difficult for him to grasp his shaft.  He finally settled into an overhand hold and began tugging at his flesh.  The audience made him a little anxious, their proximity as much as anything else, but he dutifully and awkwardly tugged at himself until his organ responded.

Pipa, not wanting another beating, had straightened up slightly, and was watching Daka stroke himself through the ends of her bangs, but more as one stares in fascination at a disfigured person than with desire.

Watching the three women watching him masturbate was a little too much for Daka.  He sank to his knees on the floor and placed the cup beneath himself, and stared at it as he pumped his hand around his curled shaft.

“Big,” Sempai Nodo murmured, too soft for Daka to hear.  Lady Koho nodded.  The Sempai opened her mouth to say more, but relented, and just watched quietly.  She and Lady Koho sat side by side on the bench seat, elbows nearly touching, as quiet as if they were praying in a place of worship.  The carriage rolled along smoothly, the thud of the ponies’ hoofboots faint below the crunch of the wheels on the gravel-strewn road.  Outside the windows rolling fields passed by, interrupted by small clumps of trees.  Here and there late-blooming wildflowers added dashes of color.

The carriage swayed and rocked gently on well-oiled springs as Daka, breathing heavily, hunched over.  Unbidden, images of the mounts pulling the carriage sprang into his mind, of them as they lay together in the water station stable two nights previous, panting and rubbing against each other.  As if she was still there Daka could feel the wet glove of the tattooed mount’s sex around his hand, clenching and bucking.  They were all just a few scant feet away, running easily, their toned bodies slick with sweat, big thigh muscles bunching with each step, breasts bouncing, bouncing.

With a hiss Daka pushed the ceramic cup against the purple head of his organ, just as the first ivory stream leapt from its tip.  His body trembled as he kept pumping his bowed shaft.  To his surprise, somehow, blindly, he managed not to spill any of his seed on the carriage floor.

He held the cup, panting, and examined the results.  The ivory fluid which clung to the ceramic seemed so paltry compared to the effort required to produce it.  Sempai Nodo demanded the cup and he handed it over, still somewhat bewildered at the turn of events.  This was a far cry from the duties of a stablehand.

Sempai Nodo peered at the seed he’d squirted in globs into the cup with a professional’s eye, but his product looked no different to her than any other seed she’d examined.  She held the cup out for Pipa to take, but Pipa inched away, poorly disguised disgust on her face.

“You take this,” the Sempai growled.  “You tasted the driver’s seed last night.  I want you to see how each man tastes different, yet the same.”

“But Sempai, what has this to do with becoming a court historian?” Pipa squeaked, still unwilling to take the cup.

“This is history,” the Sempai snapped.  “Don’t question me.  Do you want another beating?”

Pipa took the cup, looked into it, then tipped it on its side.  Nothing dripped out.  She looked at her elder.

“Use your fingers,” Sempai Nodo instructed.  She and Lady Koho watched intently as the young woman distastefully dipped her fingers into the cup.  They came out glistening with Daka’s thick seed.

Lady Koho and the Sempai both held their breath as Pipa stuck her fingers into her mouth.  She grimaced at the tangy, salty stuff, but swallowed it dutifully.  The two women perched on the edge of the seat and stared at Pipa, waiting for any sign, any change in her expression, anything.  There was nothing.

“Eat it all,” Sempai Nodo said, voice dull.  She was the foremost authority on the Lost Prince, but nowhere did the legend say exactly what effect the Prince’s seed would have.  Maybe it should have been put into a ceremonial bowl first.  Maybe she should have been the one to urge his seed forth.  The problem was she didn’t know.  Waiting until they were in the middle of nowhere had seemed a good idea when she’d discussed Daka with Lady Koho at the estate, but maybe they’d made a mistake.  Maybe they should have stopped the carriage, done it in camp, but the Sempai wanted to keep their suspicions about Daka secret, from everyone, even her driver, for as long as possible.

Pipa finished the cup, licking her fingers clean one final time, and held the cup out.  Sempai Nodo took it from her, examining Pipa’s face closely, looking for any sign that Daka’s seed was different than any other man’s.

“Well?”

Pipa shrugged and made a face.  “It tasted no different than the driver’s.  Salty, unpleasant.”  She squirmed a little as the two women continued to stare at her, and she looked down at her own hands.  The boy was still kneeling on the floor, nude, and she turned away from him.  She knew he was a slave, and so hardly counted as a person, but men made her nervous, and nude men, well . . . .  Prior to the start of this journey, she’d only ever seen two, and both of those were slaves being beaten.

Lady Koho glanced at the Sempai, who frowned and stared out the window at the passing scenery.  Finally she sighed, and her shoulders sank.  “I suppose it was too much to hope,” she muttered, and looked at Lady Koho.

Lady Koho pinched her lips together, then reluctantly nodded.  “Put your clothes on,” she snapped at Daka, and sat back on the bench.  “Where do you suppose he got the tattoo?”

The Sempai shook her head.  “The Legend is no secret.  I suppose someone hoped to make some money off of him.  Maybe he brought a high price when he was a child.”

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” Lady Koho lamented.  “Barbarians attacking clan members, the Queen making ill-informed decisions, Berserkers on the road . . . .”

“You had high hopes for him,” the old woman said.  It wasn’t a question.  Lady Koho shrugged and looked down.

“I’m not a young woman anymore, and my Clan does not have the voice in the royal court that it once did.”  She looked up, and waved a hand around.  “This trip was to buy me time to think, but. . . .”  Her voice trailed off, and her eyebrows came together.  The Sempai turned to see what she was staring at.

Pipa sat in her corner still, staring out from under her bangs as usual, but now she was staring at Daka as he pulled his robe on.  Her chest rose and fell as she pulled in one deep breath after another.

Sempai Nodo turned the rest of the way around and watched her student.  In a month she’d never seen Pipa more than glance at a man, and now she was staring at Daka, mouth partway open, and nearly panting.

Suddenly she sat up and began undoing her robe, as if she’d forgotten there were other people inside the carriage with her.  The grey robe came open and she slid it down her shoulders, revealing a thin white undershirt beneath.  As she pulled that over her head Lady Koho snuck a glance at Daka.  He was oblivious to what was happening, and had just finished fastening his robe about his waist.

Pipa had a skinny, pale body, with small, almost boyish breasts tipped with pale pink nipples.  In fact, with her narrow hips and short hair, her breasts were the only thing that kept her from being mistaken for a boy.  She stood up, and let the robe bunched around her waist fall to the ground.  Daka saw her now, saw her bend over to tug the loose white shorts off her hips.  She stepped out of the shorts and moved toward Daka, who was frozen in place.  The Sempai reached up to stop her student, but her hand halted in midair.

Pipa sank to her knees beside Daka and immediately began tugging at his robe.  He blinked in surprise and didn’t know what to do other than stare.  As she fought the loose knot holding his robe closed Daka watched her small breasts, just inches away, jiggling enticingly.  A faint downy wisp of hair was all that adorned her mound.

“Pipa, what are you doing?” the Sempai called out.

“I need him,” she mumbled in response.  Her eyes were remote, almost vacant to Daka as she finally succeeded with trembling hands in undoing the knot of his sash.  Her hands whipped his robe apart, then began tearing at his loincloth.

“Pipa, stop that this minute,” the elder commanded, watching intently.  Pipa gave no sign she’d even heard her.  “Pipa!  Stop that this instant!”  Pipa mumbled something unintelligible and kept on.  Daka searched out his Mistress’ gaze, looking for guidance.  She held her palm out, telling him to stay put.

“Young lady, stop touching him right now or I will have you beat bloody,” the Sempai threatened, and then watched to see what effect the threat had.

Pipa pressed her thighs together and started bobbing up and down as she tugged at the knot around his waist, but ignored her teacher’s threats.  The lust, the fire between her legs, in her head, was almost more than she could bear, and she had no thought for anything other than Daka.  As she bent over him, frantically tugging at the knot of his loincloth, she squeezed her thighs together over and over, pressing against her sex.  As the knot came undone the first trickle escaped her folds, running down the inside of her thigh.  It caught the sunlight coming in through the window, and both older women saw it.

Pipa pushed him over onto his back and grabbed at his still stiff organ, trying to free it from its bonds.  She half-squatted over him, and tugged fiercely at his big organ, needing it inside her.  She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, all she knew was she wanted him, had to have him.

“Ow.  Ow!  Hey!”  Daka yelled as she yanked on his bound organ so fiercely his backside left the floor.

“All right, that’s enough,” the Sempai said.  She leaned forward and grabbed Pipa’s arm.  “Boy, help me,” she commanded Daka.  Pipa had resorted to grinding her sex against the curving shaft of his tool, gasping and moaning like she was on the verge of death.

Pipa fought ferociously, but finally Daka and his Mistress got the skinny adept pinned down in the corner.  The Sempai had tried to help, but hadn’t near the strength required to fight the bucking young woman.

“Fuck me, give it to me,” Pipa entreated Daka, who was bent over her, restraining one arm and one leg, sweaty from the struggle.  She licked his forearm like a wild animal, which was all she could reach, and shuddered at the taste of him.  Daka was shocked at the transformation that had occurred in her, from a mousy little thing afraid to even meet his eyes to a sex-crazed beast he could barely keep contained.

“Let’s see if this calms her down at all,” the Sempai said, kneeling before her adept, who was bent nearly double and yet still struggled.

Spitting on two of her knobby fingers the Sempai deftly slid them into the inflamed sex of her assistant.  The spit was unnecessary; she was as wet as a river, and hot as a kettle of boiling soup.

Using just two fingers, the old woman displayed an expertise learned over a lifetime as she stroked her adept’s inflamed flesh.  Pipa screamed and grunted and fought as her teacher’s nimble fingers quickly brought her to three explosive climaxes.  After the last she went almost limp and stopped trying to fight her way back onto Daka’s tool, but the Sempai wasn’t satisfied; slowly and gently she worked the young adept to climax again not once but twice, until the skinny body was limp in their arms and Pipa seemed hardly aware of her surroundings.  Daka and Lady Koho lifted her thin body onto the bench seat where she slumped, dazed and blinking slowly like a fish long out of water.  Her body glistened with sweat, but she wasn’t alone—they all were slick with the stuff after wrestling with her for three quarters of an hour.

The Sempai produced a decorative kerchief and mopped her brow, then offered it to Lady Koho.  The ends of the Lady’s hair were damp where they touched her forehead.  The effort of restraining the slender assistant had her sweatier than she’d been in months—the girl had writhed like a snake the entire time, fighting to get to Daka until all her reserves had been spent.

The women wiped their faces and hands, eyeing Pipa, as Daka sat back down on the opposite bench.

“Well, my heart is filled with hope now,” the Sempai said carefully.  “But I fear we may have unforeseen problems on our hands.”  She was looking at Pipa, who sat sprawled on the bench, legs splayed apart.  She seemed slowly to be coming around.

“What happened to her?” Daka asked.  The young aide was seemingly unaware that she was without clothes or that she was displaying her swollen and still juicy sex to all in the coach, which was filled with the smell of her.

“She has . . . come into season,” his mistress told Daka.

“She’s fertile?”

“Maybe.  It is difficult to explain.  Be quiet now, boy.”  She turned to the Sempai.  “If when she recovers her behavior is unchanged we’re going to have to bind her.”

“Let us wait and see,” the historian said.  “The legend says that women who eat of . . . it . . . lose their will.  It makes no mention of an all-consuming lust.  Maybe that is just an initial, temporary condition.”

“What if his issue is delivered to other . . . orifices?  Will the effect be the same?”

“The legend only says ‘females who eat of his seed’.  It makes no mention of normal intercourse having the same effects, but remember, we’re talking of legend here.  What is true and what is embellishment, expanded over time, I know not.  Until now I never realized how many important details were lacking.”

“Well, the legend as we have learned it is apparently no mere fancy,” Lady Koho observed.

“Apparently,” the Sempai agreed.  She studied her student as Pipa slowly sat up.  As soon as her eyes found Daka she sat up and moved to his side.  The Sempai held a staying hand up to both Daka and his Mistress.

Pipa sat on the bench next to Daka and pressed herself to him.  She nuzzled his neck and kissed his ear, making him squirm.  Her arms hugged and caressed his shoulders and body, but she did not try to attack his manhood as before.  Daka seemed very nervous, unsure of what to do with the young woman hanging on him.

“Boy, my assistant seems to be in some sort of delirium,” Sempai Nodo told him.  “I want you to help me determine just how . . . out of sorts she is.  Tell her to do something you think she would find . . . distasteful.”

“M’Lady?”

“What is she whispering into your ear?” his Mistress asked.  She’d finally noticed Pipa was murmuring fervently to him, eyes half closed, nearly sitting atop him.  Daka was greatly discomfited.

“She seems to think I am royalty,” he told the ladies with some distress.  “She’s saying ‘My Lord, My Master, uh . . . I am yours.’”  Daka was so uneasy he could barely get the words out.

“Well, tell her something, boy,” the Sempai instructed him.  Pipa seemed to be trying to wrap all of her limbs around him as he sat on the coach bench.

“I, uh . . . .” he said, eyeing the skinny young woman burrowing into his side.

“Tell her, boy!” the Sempai spat. 

“Uh, m’lady, m’lady,” he said to Pipa, grabbing her shoulder to get her attention.

“Her name’s Pipa.”

“Pipa.  Pipa!”

Pipa stopped her frantic nuzzling and looked up into his eyes.  “Yes my Lord?”

Daka was at a loss as to how to proceed.  Sempai Nodo, for her part, was convinced Daka was the One, and his seed was true, if for no other reason than her mousy young assistant who yesterday couldn’t bear to be touched by a man and seemed to have no interest in sex had changed in just a few seconds to this elemental creature who sat naked before them, sweat drying on her body.  But what kind of sway his issue held over her—that was the question.  But Daka, for his part, was used to taking orders, not giving them.

“Daka, you clod, stand up and tell her to clean you with her tongue,” Lady Koho directed him.  “Take your robe off.”

“Better still,” the Sempai saide, “have her clean your backside.”

“M’Lady?”

“You heard her,” Lady Koho snapped.  Daka now stood in the center of the coach, his robe around his feet.  Pipa sat on the seat and gazed adoringly up at him.

“Uh, Pipa,” he said hesitantly.  He glanced at the two women scowling at him.  “You heard the Sempai.  Um . . . clean me.”

“Oh, thank you My Lord.”  Pipa dropped to her knees on the floor, scooted around behind him, and immediately buried her face between his cheeks.  She took hold of his thighs to stay close as the cabin gently swayed on the road.

The two women watched the comical series of expressions running across Daka’s face.  He reached up and put his hands on the ceiling to keep his balance.  After another minute he spread his legs wider, and his eyes half closed in pleasure.

“Is she using her tongue?” Lady Koho asked.

“Yes, m’lady.” Pipa’s face was hidden behind his hips.

“Have her put it deep in your dirt hole,” the Sempai said.

“Unnh.  It’s there now, m’lady,” he said with a little effort.  The veins from his hard curving shaft told the women just what he thought of the treatment he was getting.

“Will her . . . willingness fade after the seed she’s eaten is digested completely?  Or is the effect permanent?”

“I don’t know,” the Sempai admitted.  “There is much that I do not.  Does it affect all women to the same degree, for instance.  How much of his squirt needs to be eaten for the effect to occur?  If we had but another with us to spare . . . but neither of us dare risk it, and I don’t think it’s wise to try it with a pony while on the road.”

“I agree.”

“Daka.  Boy!  Is your backside clean enough now?”

“Unh.  Ahh.  Uh, yes,” he grunted.  He was ready to come at any second, but didn’t want to reach down and touch himself without permission.

“Good.  Have her come around and clean your front now.  You can touch her if you wish.”  The Sempai murmured to Lady Koho, “Let’s see if more seed doubles the effect on her, or if it just goes down like so much snot.”