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"Three Ponies"

      byAbe

My fiance’, Benito, was very busy before the elections,  both at the restaurant and as a block captain for the Conservative Christian  Party. He promised me we would get married as soon as possible after the  election. I spent my lonely nights watching TV, especially Paola, Fredericka,  and Bianca, female "talking heads" who always took the Leftist view. No party  won a majority, but the CCP got enough seats in the parliament that they were  accepted into the coalition government. Their price was two ministries, Justice  and Defense. Soon Paola disappeared. The Ministry of Justice said that  her clothes had been found in a small boat drifting in the Adriatic, and she was  presumed drowned, either by accident or suicide. Two days later, Fredericka, the  one with the bleached blonde hair, disappeared from the TV, and the tabloid  newspapers, citing unnamed official sources, said she had embezzeled money and  fled to Russia. A week later, Bianca, probably the prettiest of the three,  disappeared. It was said that she had abandoned her husband and children and run  off with a wealthy Argentinian capitalist. Of course there was a lot of gossip  about immoral communists, but most people, on the right and the left, seemed to  accept that these strange coincidences happen.

The next month, Benito  and I were married, even though I had a cast on my leg from a nasty fall. He had  arranged a honeymoon at a remote island resort. After a change of planes, we  arrived by boat after dark. I could see that there was an ancient looking  village with a castle on the shore of a small harbor, very picturesque. We had a  little cottage, very private, and Benito went out of his way to make our wedding  night pleasant and memorable. We skipped breakfast, but Benito said we must get  up to attend a lecture on the Duties of a Christian Wife. It was then I realized  that our visit had strings attached. The whole island was owned by the  Conservative Christian Party, and everyone we saw or met was active in the  party. It was kind of spooky, especially when we went to dinner, the noon meal.  The meal was buffet style, but all the workers, in the kitchen or carrying food  to the dining room, were women, dressed in identical black dresses, not really  dresses, more like burlap sacks, a very rough fabric, with holes cut for neck  and arms. They were ankle‑length, and the women, whether teen‑age or middle aged  or something in between, were barefoot, and they all had wedding rings! When I mentioned it to Benito, he explained that all the workers were  wives of party members who needed remedial instruction in their wifely duties.  That really made me shiver.

Our schedule was all mapped out for us.  Apparently all the honeymooners get the same itinerary, visits to shrines and  monuments and lectures. However, I couldn't walk up to the hilltop shrine of St.  Basil, so Benito said he'd get us a pony cart. The cart was metal, a  bench seat for two with a foot rest and wire‑spoked wheels, like a motorcycle's.  A tubular shaft went forward to a crossbar, where the ponies were hitched. The  surprise was that the ponies, three of them, were women! They wore leather  helmets which also covered the upper part of the face, with only a sort of oval  tube in front of the eyes, which would allow the "pony" to see directly ahead  and down. The helmets were decorated with plumes, red, blue, and green, the  names of the ponies. The helmets also had bridles, with an iron bit in the  mouth. I wondered why a bit but no reins. Benito noted the bit made speech  impossible. Each woman wore a wide, tight black belt around her waist. Her  wrists had leather cuffs which attached to the belt above each hip, so her arms  were useless. Her lower legs were enclosed in black boots of a strange style.  Judging from the length, the woman's toes were pointed down, like with very high  heels, but the foot of the boot was not shaped like a foot. Rather it resembled a  horse's hoof,  and I wondered if it was possible to walk in them, unless one was  held upright by the cart harness, for it would have been like walking on stilts.  The harness was simple. The tubular crossbar pressed against the back of the  thigh, just at the crease of the buttocks, and from there a wide leather strap  ‑‑‑ it smelled of urine ‑‑‑ went forward between the legs and attached at the  belt. The strap covered the genital area and, I was certain, when the  pony pulled forward, that the propulsive force must come from the pressure of  her vulva against the strap. The anal region was covered by a horse‑like tail,  red, blue, or green, which, it seemed, must be attached to some sort of object  embedded in the rectum. There would be no need to clean up pony manure.  Otherwise the ponies were naked, except for the breasts. The central part of  each breast was covered by a black metal cup, bullet shaped, which seemed firmly  attached, but it was not evident how. I thought of glue, or perhaps a vacuum  holding the cup against the breast. Benito said it was possible they were  mechanically attached, as with nails driven into the breast tissue. I shuddered  to think of it. There was a buggy whip in a socket next to the seat, but there  was no need to use it. The ponies, muscular, sun tanned, were well trained, and  it was only necessary for Benito to say, "Take us to St. Basil's", and off they  went. For most of the way, there was a smooth path, a bit wider than the  cart. They moved out at a good pace, where the path was fairly level, but when  we came to a hill, the three of them had to lean into their work to pull up  uphill. I marveled at their well developed thigh muscles as they strained to  pull us. The slope was so steep that we were tilted back in our seats, and I  wondered if my skirt preserved my modesty. A Christian woman does not wear  garments which "divide the legs", and I couldn't have put on slacks over my  cast, anyway. I kept my knees pressed together. Near the top, sweating with  exertion, the ponies stopped for a moment, taking deep breaths. I could only imagine the effect, pain or pleasure, of the pressure of the strap against their genitals, but it seemed as if it must be brutal torture, so humiliating.  Benito impatiently cracked the whip, first in the air  and then against Blue's bare buttock, which bore the marks of previous whippings. The ponies resumed their work. At  last we came near the shrine, but the path went no further; there were steps  which blocked the progress of the cart. Benito jumped out and said, "Julia, my  dear, you can't possibly climb the steps. Wait here while I go and see the  shrine." The ponies just stood there, balancing on their hooves, nearly  motionless.

As soon as Benito was out of sight, I climbed down, and  hobbled toward where I could get a better view of the sea. Blue, as I passed,  started to cough and gag, heaving her metal‑clad breasts as if she couldn't  breathe. With the metal weights on them, they swung like bells in a wind storm.  Concerned, I loosened Blue's bridle and bit, which instantly solved her  breathing problem. "Thank you so much," she said. "The bit is so uncomfortable."

________________________________________________________

"Somehow, I didn't expect you to speak," I said,  stupidly. "How did you come to have a job like this?"

"I used to be a  television personality. I was known as Bianca. The fascists kidnapped me and  told me that a communist, who was always concerned for the working class, was a  hypocrite if she earned a huge salary for talking. I should experience work  myself. Red is Fredricka, and Green is Paola. They say we will never leave this  island. Since our faces are covered, very few know who we are, and they won't  tell." It dawned on me that, if one controlled the Ministry of Justice  and all the police, such a thing was possible.

"They just put you into harness?"

"No, we were broken, first." I nodded to her to go on. "I woke up naked,  with my head and body hair all shaved, suspended by my wrists from that  gallows‑like frame you must have noticed in the plaza, by the harbor. My head  was covered, as it is now, but with my eyes covered, too, so I could not see,  but I could hear people, men, all around me, talking, calling me a communist  slut and things like that. I was so embarrassed, naked in public like that. But  it got worse. They forced me to drink castor oil, and as I hung there in the  sun, with my ankles tied together, I could not help shitting, soiling myself  while the men laughed. After that, they took me down and spread‑eagled  me on a gridiron, criss‑crossed iron bars, and they put me into the harbor, with just my head above water. It was awful. I could feel  eels slithering across my body. Starfish crawled over my skin with their little  sucker feet, and crabs. A squid wrapped its tentacles around my breast and tried  to eat my nipple off, but somehow it couldn't. You know how octopuses hide in  cracks in the sea floor? An octopus took up residence in my vagina! I could feel  it going in and out as it ambushed it's prey and then retreated to it's hiding  place to eat. They left me there all night. In the morning, I was desperately  thirsty, and my skin was all wrinkled from immersion in the sea water. They  laughed and hosed me off and said I could have a drink, up the ass. They put the  hose against my anus and forced water into me until I thought I would burst, and  I could hear men joking about how much I could take. Then, of course, I expelled  the water in a great gush, and the men laughed and laughed and made my torturers  do it over and over.

"Then they took me to a sort of barrel or pipe on  short legs. They bent me over and pushed my upper body into the barrel, pulling  my breasts through holes in the wall of the pipe. They put rope nooses over my  breasts so I couldn't move. My hips and bottom, of course, were obscenely  displayed, and they forced my legs apart and tied them, so any spectator could  see my most private parts. Then they brought out a big dog and sprayed my  bottom with bitch scent. I couldn't see the dog, but he must have been huge, for  he got up, his forelegs grasping the barrel, and pushed his huge cock into my  vagina. At first, it was only uncomfortable, and very humiliating, to be raped  with a dog's penis the size of baguette, but when it swelled up, so big he  couldn't pull it out, I was in real pain. It seemed forever, that he ravished me  and squirted semen into me, while the men joked and laughed. He could  not, you see, remove his penis until the swelling went down. I didn't think  anything could be worse than that, but they brought out another dog, and they  pressed his long, pointed penis against my anus. I was, by this time, sobbing  hopelessly and crying that they were tearing my anus, but of course that didn't  stop them.

"When the second dog was finally able to pull out, I was  convinced they would stop torturing me, but they had other ideas. They brought  out a small horse and induced him to mount the barrel as he would a mare. His  member must have been the size of my forearm, and it would surely have torn my  uterus loose, if he put it in my vagina. However, they steered it into my ass,  and he must have pushed 50 centimeters into my bowels. I was bleeding and almost  insane with pain when he finally withdrew; my anus was torn and gaping open.  They packed it with medicated gauze and led me to the stables."

"The  three of us live in the stables, sleeping in the straw of our stalls. By day we  pull this cart. By night, we are fucked by many men; we never see their faces.  They say that if a pony complains, they'll give us to the stallion again. I will  do anything to avoid that. My anus, now, is about 4 cm. in diameter, with  nothing plugging it, and the tail I'm wearing, day and night, is attached to a  plug about 8 cm. in diameter, at the opening, bigger inside. Normal defecation  is impossible, but they hose us out every day, before they put the tail back in  for the day."

There were so many questions I wanted to ask, like about  the metal breast covers and if they ever released her hands and did she have a  chance to bathe, but I saw Benito coming, and I had to put the bit back in her  mouth before he saw what I had done. The downhill ponycart ride was  uneventful, if you think that watching the women leaning back against the crossbar  and seeing their breasts swaying, and imagining what their clitorises must be  like after all that rubbing with a rough leather strap is not an event.

When we  got back to Rome, I made an excuse to visit my mother. I dare not tell my story,  that I know where the three leftist news readers really are. I don't think I want to go back to my husband, Benito, but the CCP‑run Justice Ministry has made  it almost impossible for a wife to leave her husband, and I know that, if I  tried to escape and failed, Benito would not hesitate to send me for  "re‑education" on the island. The thought of that rough fabric rubbing my  nipples while I wash thousands of dishes is enough to make me submissive, as a  good Christian wife should be.

‑ The End ‑