Madeleine (18 page)

“Well, girl,” said Morgan, a few minutes later, “you’ve made a good start.
Your times are well up to what I had hoped for when I sized you up on arrival, and you seem to have developed the right attitude, but you’ve only just begun.
You’ve shown what you’re capable of in simple harness, but now you’re going to do it the hard way.
You’re going to pull the buggy with your cunt.”
The part referred to, already overwrought by over stimulation and enforced abstinence, twitched, as he went on.

“There’s two kinds of pony-girl racing, the straight stuff you’ve met already, and the elite version.
There’s not many go in for it, it’s hard to find mares good enough, but there’s a few of us think it’s the only real sport, and the other’s just a game for girls.

We call it riding the Devil’s Horn, which is a pretty fair description, as you will have a hook up your vagina with which you’ll pull the carriage, instead of the traces from your belt.
The pressure on your vaginal wall, and your guts behind, is bound to bruise.
I don’t suppose you’ll welcome a prick up there soon, even if you have become randy as hell, and I expect it will cost you a few groans to shit.
I’ll make no bones about it, it’s going to hurt, hurt like hell, but you’re going to do it.
You’ll be made to do it.
We’ve established now exactly what you are capable of, and should you fall short of the times we know you can achieve, we’ll know it’s because you’re shying from the pain in your cunt, and we’ll make sure you keep up to the mark.
Now come and meet the Horn.”

They led her out to where she was normally hitched up.
The buggy was there still, but the shafts had been replaced by a single pole, which was held horizontal by a strut hinged to the front end, and turned down at the moment to support the single shaft.
A few inches back from the tip a polished metal stem, about eight inches long, curved up and back in a graceful arc, carrying on its tip an equally polished ball, nearly two inches in diameter, not unlike a bizarre caravan tow ball.

“Swing your leg over the bar,” Morgan ordered, “and lower your cunt over the ball.
If I know you, you’re probably pretty wet already, but you can rub yourself up and down on it a little first, if you like, and lubricate it with your juice.”

Trembling slightly with the fear induced by his description of what lay in store for her, she swung one long bare leg over the pole, and positioned herself against the ball.
With her head held back by the customary thong, she could not see the ball once she was astride the bar, but she eased herself forward until she felt the cold metal nudging at her labia, then flexed her knees, and worked her now dripping slit against the polished ball.
Almost instantly her long neglected clitoris began to respond until she was panting through gaping mouth, her belly twitching, and her knees working frenziedly.

“That’s quite enough of that,” Morgan growled, “you’re not here to wank yourself off.
Get the ball inside you.”

Wrenching herself away from the imminent and desperately desired orgasm, she rose onto her toes, and got the ball to lodge between her labia, then wriggled her body down until the cold metal sank easily into the well wetted sheath.
Its girth took her aback, distending her vagina as it sank deeper, until at last she felt the pole touch home between her thighs, and her feet sank back to earth.
How was it to be retained?
She had seen no other attachments to the bar, other than the strut that supported it horizontally, so she could mount it.
She didn’t have to wait long for an answer.

Bob reached down and took hold of the bottom of the strut, swinging it up in front of her, until it ran up her belly to her breasts.
Though her enforced head high pose prevented her from seeing it at the time, the end of the strut opened out into a fork, on the tips of which were mounted spring loaded steel jaws.
She became aware of their presence, though, when he fastened each to one of her nipples, her breath coming in with a prolonged hissing sound as the full bite took effect.
They were serrated, with very strong springs and further, they were constructed in such a way that the harder the pull on them the harder they gripped, as she found out when he released the pole, its weight depended from her breasts, and in particular her stretched and pinched nipples.
They’d already promised her pain to be overcome, in her pussy, but this was something she hadn’t bargained for.

Bob was the first to mount up, the shifting balance alternately dragging on her already sore nipples, and thrusting the ball painfully up against her cervix.

“Now, girl,” he said, “don’t rush it.
Nice and easy now, until you get the feel of it.”
He flicked the reins gently on her bare back, clicking his tongue to encourage her to take her first apprehensive stride in this new, and devastating, rig.

‘The Devil's Horn’

From the first stride she knew that Morgan hadn’t lied to her.
It hurt like hell.
Apart from the existing pain in her breasts and nipples, exacerbated by the motion of the loaded carriage, the ball in her vagina pressed into the tender rear wall, and onto her lower intestines as she leaned her weight forward cautiously to get the buggy moving.
Gritting her teeth, she kept up the pressure and unlike her usual lively start to the day’s exercise, moved slowly and deliberately towards the exit from the yard.

“Giddup, girl,” came the command, “you’ve taken the measure of it now, and know what’s in it for you.
Time to put your courage to the test,” and he laid a searing cut of the switch across her bare buttocks.

As usual, the shock of the cut drove her forward, involuntarily, and she felt the full effect of the ‘horn’.
It seemed to claw her entrails like a crab, and she gasped at the pain in her belly.
Resolved not to be judged lacking in courage, she struck up something nearer to a racing pace, though she moaned and gasped at every stride, and the perspiration which flowed down her flanks was the sweat of agony rather than the result of honest exercise.

At the end of the lap, Morgan met them with his watch in his hand.

“That’s the slowest she’s done since we started timing her, Bob.
It’ll be uphill work to get her back to her best form, but we know, and she knows, what she’s capable of, and it’s up to you to see she bites the bullet and stretches her cunt on that horn until she’s got her times back to what they should be.”

“Yes, Sir, Mr Morgan,” Bob agreed, “she’s going to have to show she can take the pain in her guts if she’s going to make the grade.
I’d hate to think she couldn’t take it, she started off full of promise and I thought she was going to be a top performer.
I hope we don’t have to put her down as an ‘also ran’ and take her out of training.”

“Well, it’s all up to her,” Morgan replied, “either she fights the pain in her guts and pushes herself back into form, or I’ll have to consider sending her back.
Take her out again, and let’s see if she’s got what it takes.”

Back onto the circuit, grim faced behind the bridle and bit which framed her face and drew back the corners of her mouth, Madeleine launched herself at the unyielding steel that pressed her body and bowels, determined not to end her training prematurely, and in disgrace.
The violence of the thrust drew a scream past the bit, and her body jerked momentarily, but she did not flinch despite the agony it induced, setting off at something more nearly approaching the kind of pace she had built up to over the long days of training that had gone already.
Her nipples had gone numb, only responding dully to the jolting rhythm of her gait, but the bruising blows in her gut hurt just as much, even though she had mustered the will to overcome them, rather than admit defeat. She still moaned at every step, and at the finish stood with her shoulders heaving and tears running down her face.

But it had been a much better time, not as good as her best, but clear evidence of her purpose and her determination to bear the pain it cost her to drive the buggy so briskly.

Her training continued, relentlessly.
Gradually they stepped up the distances again; two laps, then four, though at times she screamed when an ill-judged step caught her on a rough part of the track, and seemed to tear her guts, and she was often in tears at the end of the course.
Bob treated her with almost loving consideration off the course, washing and anointing her sore nipples, douching her bruised and aching vagina and rectum with an analgesic mixture, and even dressing with a soothing cream the stripes he had earlier laid on her back and sides with his slicing whip, but on the track he was merciless.
Though she screamed at the effect of pot-holes on the training circuit, and moaned as the ‘horn’ gored deeper and harder into her, he never let up, driving her with his whip and tongue, letting her know she would only hold her place if her times continued to improve, taunting her with cowardice if she flinched from the ‘horn’.

The first morning she went the full six laps she felt as if she had been disembowelled.
Her guts ached, she screamed as the nipple clamps came off and the blood rushed back into the pinched and tortured nubs.
She was still sobbing when he led her to her mid-day feed.
When he came to tie the thong back in her hair, preparatory to hitching her up for the afternoon’s work, he told her that Morgan had not been satisfied that she’d tried her best on the six lap purgatory, and had given orders that she was to go through it again.
It was too much.
Her body rebelled, and she cringed from the pole towards which he was leading her, and refused to lift her leg over it to mount the horn.
He cut her twice, sharply, with the switch, but she continued to shy away.
Even in her extremity she refused to speak, that would have been the ultimate, and irrevocable, admission of defeat, but she whined behind the bit, the agonised ‘nnnnngh’ sound of a woman in extremis.

“What’s going on, Bob?
Having trouble with the filly?”

“‘Fraid so, Mr. Morgan, Sir.
Can’t get her to mount up again.
Seems she doesn’t want to do those six laps again.”

“Doesn’t she just?
We’ll have to see about that.
Give her a last chance, Bob.
Let her go back to her stall and think it over.
If she comes back by the time I’ve had my lunch, and gets her cunt over the knob ready to trot, we’ll say no more about it, but unless she got that horn right up, and puts in a good time after, she can forget it.
She’s out.”

Morgan turned away towards the house, then, with an after thought, turned back.

“And to teach her not to balk at an aching gut, make her do an extra lap.”

Well, she’d invited him to take her to the limit of her endurance, and then beyond, and he seemed to have taken her at her word.
Standing in her stall, her pussy and belly still hurting from the morning’s punishment, she thought about her position, what had been done to her, what she had achieved.
Could she take more?
Could she achieve more?
There was only one way to find out.
Half an hour after she had balked at being sent round again, she was lifting her leg over the pole and pressing her labia against the now cold knob.
When he came back from lunch, Morgan found her sitting as required, the ‘horn’ fully home in her bruised vagina, waiting patiently for what might befall.
He watched as she winced while Bob hitched up the breast clamps, then took his stop-watch in hand to check their progress.

Once she had committed herself, there was no going back.
This was to be the point beyond endurance, and yet she had to endure it.
Bob with his whip did not drive her as hard as she drove herself, though he left her back bleeding in a dozen places, and her will would not be moved, though her body was in torment.
She ran with her head back, her agony leaving her throat in a strange intermittent honking in time with her steps.
When at last her pain soaked body came to a halt, her knees collapsed under her and she foundered, lying on the pole with the terrible steel horn still embedded deep in her abdomen. But she had completed her seven laps, and when Morgan announced that the time at the six lap mark was little slower than she had recorded without the Devil’s Horn, the wave of pride and satisfaction which swept over her almost drowned the pain in her breasts and belly and the aching fatigue in her legs and neck.

Though they were pleased with her performance under stress, her trainers gave her only minimal time to recover.
The next day she was out on the track again, light work it is true, but work nevertheless, and her training continued without interruption.
One evening, at ‘stables’ Morgan came in to make his last inspection of the day, looking more than usually pleased.

“Great news, Bob,” he said, “Folkstein has agreed to take us on.
He’s bringing that Polish mare of his over at the weekend.
We’re wagering a hundred grand a head on them, but what I’m really after is to beat the son of a bitch.
He thinks that big yellow mare of his can’t be bested, now she’s gone unbeaten for a year, but our chestnut filly’s going well enough to take her, I reckon.”

“True enough, Sir, and she’s got the determination to do it.
Do you think the Polack has the same incentive, after being in training so long?”

“Oh, she’s got incentive enough.
Folkstein reckons she’s slipped a little lately, and he puts it down to too much sexual tension building up.
With some, like our filly here, it can be a livener, if one keeps them from discharging it, but he reckons she’s got too much, and that she’d be better off with her clit out, so if she doesn’t win this one, she’s to be gelded.”

Madeleine shuddered where she stood.
Poor woman, to lose her sexual centre at an owner’s whim.
She’d certainly not be an easy one to beat.

The next few days were given over to last minute race training.
No more long distance running, nothing over a lap, but endless starts and sprints where she was made to lunge against the ‘horn’ until she was impacting so hard she couldn’t resist crying out loud at the pain.
Bob tended her with infinite care, examining every part of her body twice a day for cuts and abrasions, which he treated with astringent lotions to heal and harden her, washing and conditioning her hair, brushing it out until it gleamed, watching her diet and her droppings, massaging every part until she squirmed beneath his hard hands.

By the fourth day she was sparklingly alive, and ready to go.
That evening her opponent arrived, an immensely powerful blonde not above her own height but broader in every part, great thighs and shoulders, her belly a little rounded it was true, but no sign of any real fat on her, just solid purposeful meat all over.

The match was set for the next day.
A small knot of visitors had come for the event, and walked round the stables, inspecting the runners.
Madeleine recognised several of them from her previous stay in the establishment, including the mannish looking woman who had driven her in the race.
An older, military looking, man was accompanied by an attractive and athletic young woman of about twenty or so.
Madeleine couldn’t decide if she was auditioning to be a driver or a mount, either way she took a keen interest in the proceedings, examining the runners in that day’s race, and questioning her escort minutely about their training, diet and equipment.

The two mares were fitted with their belts and bridles, the bits set firmly into their mouths.
Bob had plaited the thong into her hair, as usual, but had decorated his work with added scarlet ribbons,
Now it hung down her back, waiting to be fastened to the waist band.
He’d also included a light rubbing of oil on her breasts and body, an extra smear on the soles of her feet; her pubic hair shone and curled glossily, and he’d even thrown in a pedicure, complete with colourless varnish on her toes.
He obviously intended that her turn out should be immaculate to impress this crowd of seasoned judges of female flesh.

She’d made good droppings that morning, thanks to the high fibre diet she was on, and despite the curious stares of the bystanders, but Bob insisted on a further flushing to follow.

“There’s some as says a gut full of dung will cushion the ball, but I don’t hold with that. In the first place you don’t want the ball pushing at a swollen bowel, and in the second, you’re not here to have it easy,” and he thumbed home two horse-sized suppositories.
Five minutes later she was entertaining the watchers with her riven face and writhing belly as she squatted on the floor making humiliating squirts of brown slime onto the straw.

“That’s good, lass,” Bob observed, as she bent while he sponged her anus, “t’were best you were clean right through, now let’s be having you outside for the Scrutineers.”

Both contestants were led out of their stalls, their hair thongs hanging loose, their arms not yet secured behind them, and taken to the end of the stable where two men, obviously appointed for the purpose, waited by a solid looking bench equipped with stirrups.

First, each woman in turn had to bend while a Scrutineer pulled a rubber glove onto his hand and thrust two fingers into her anus, feeling around as high as he could reach in the rectum beyond.
Then the Polish woman was ushered to the bench and made to lie on it, somewhat reluctantly, Madeleine thought, and put her feet into the stirrups, spreading her great thighs wide, offering unrestricted access to her body, where the watchers could see an engorged stub of clitoris protruding from between her labia, between which the Scrutineer thrust a polished plated speculum, which he then extended, bringing a grimace to the reclining woman’s face, and enabling him to see the interior of the vagina, right up to the cervix.

The young woman accompanying her military escort, touched his arm.
“What’s going on, and what is that probe for, the one the man’s holding?”

“The man, as you call him, is one of the Scrutineers, agreed by the two owners, to see that there’s no funny business.
The probe is actually a pencil point soldering iron.”

“And why have they put that black cloth over her face?”

“If you give me a chance, I’ll tell you.
Seems to me you could do with a little discipline yourself.”

The girl looked abashed.
“I’m sorry, Major.
I’ll try not to interrupt again, but it’s all so exciting.”

The Major seemed mollified by her submission. “Very well, I’ll explain.
The cloth is to make sure she isn’t given any surreptitious signals by her owner.
She’s going to be tested for any artificial numbing of her cunt.
Normally such things are not necessary.
Apart from honour among gentlemen, the object of those who race women on the ‘horn’ is to watch the struggle between her weak body and her strong will, and see how long she can hold out until the former triumphs.” The girl by his side shuddered, whether in horror, or ecstasy, wasn’t clear.
Perhaps both. “But this is a needle match.
Morgan’s been trying to find a woman he can put up against that great Polish peasant of Folkstein’s for a long while, and now he thinks he can do it.
They’ve got a hundred grand each riding on it too, but the game’s the thing, and under the circumstances it would be only human to try and get a little advantage somewhere.