order >50$ = Free shipping / order >130$=Free Fast shipping

0

Your Cart is Empty

The Abduction Company - Part 5 - Searching for Martin

Here is part five of a multi-part BDSM serial written exclusively for Oxy-Shop by taped2. After a brief continuation of Part Four, events preceding Melody’s kidnapping are portrayed. Also, we explore more of the Abduction Company’s premises and follow Martin through his first full day in thrall. Rising, restraint, and pony training are our themes as Martin learns to love cock chastity and to follow where his training in submission leads. 


After falling out with Amber, Melody slept sporadically during her second night at Abduction Company. By three in the morning she was awake. She had tossed and turned in bed for hours. Finally, she realized this would be the perfect time to be looking for Martin. She decided to sneak down into the lowest level, into the men’s prison cells. That afternoon she had bought a small flashlight at the hardware boutique in the shopping section of the main floor, thinking it would help her find her way around her luxury suite in the dark. Now it could be even more useful.

 

The prisoners would be in their cells. Those that had cages, might be in cages too. Melody had noticed, during Amber’s tour, that her own pass key seemed to admit her to every general section, excluding her only from private quarters and management offices. Evidently she had an elevated security rank, as if she was a high-level dominant or administrator. She wasn’t sure why she had such access. It was hard to think of people in terms of dominant and submissive.

 

If Martin was anywhere, it would be in one of those cells in the second sub-basement. And why was he here at all? Based on her chat with Mistress Destiny a few days ago, she knew why Destiny might be interested in him, but what was Destiny’s connection to the Abduction Company? Did she have shares in the place? Was she keeping Martin hostage here for some more nefarious purpose? There were too many missing pieces to develop a theory.

 

The elevator took Melody from the twelfth-floor to the men’s prison area without stopping. (There was a women’s prison section too. She couldn’t remember where.)

 

As she moved from cell to cell, Melody scanned the prisoners with her tiny light. Most were asleep. Suddenly, a much stronger light enveloped her. A man hissed vehemently behind her. “What are you doing? Who are you?” She looked to her left. He had a partner, who was within arm’s-length. There are guards in this cell block. Of course there would be. Every prison has guards.

 

One grabbed her, spun her around and pinioned her arms behind her. The other swished a bottle, soaked the cloth in his hand, and pressed it to her nose and mouth. It smelled horrible, noxious. Not again, thought Melody, just before she passed out. Not more men with ambitions on me.

 

+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

 

Four days earlier, before she’d heard of Abduction Company, Melody had weighed the keys to Martin's penthouse apartment in her hand. It was the second night he’d failed to reply. She burned with worry. That he’d given her a copy of his keys indicated a kind of permission, that she should search for him if he was ever in trouble. The keys said   I want you to find me, no matter where I am. She’d already been to his Mississauga office. His secretary, Bonnie said he was on vacation. Melody did not wish to appear clingy. Of course, Martin could go on vacation without her. Bonnie probably only believed they were dating. Melody considered her relations with Martin far more intimate than dating, but that wasn’t Bonnie’s business.

 

Martin had introduced them six weeks before, while he toured Melody around the company his father had founded. Perhaps his secretary was jealous of the new girl dating the young owner. But Bonnie wore an ostentatious wedding ring and she was probably ten years older than Melody, who was a fresh-faced beauty, and twenty-five years old. Bonnie’s hair was a kind of bottle-red. She wore a classic office outfit: white blouse, a tailored moss-green jacket and matching skirt, high heels, pantyhose. Nicely turned out. Pretty, in fact.

 

Late into the evening, Martin had still not replied to any of Melody’s texts or phone calls. She drove to his condo building near the city centre, parked across the street in a public lot, and entered with his key and passcode. First she went to his parking spot in the basement. His red Maserati Quattroporte was there, backed into place, as usual. Doors locked. No damage. Nothing amiss.

 

A quick elevator to the eighteenth floor and suddenly she was at his door. She entered, her heart pounding. How well things had been going between them! The apartment was empty. Had he taken up with another girl? There was no rival snuggled in his bed. No dishes unwashed in the sink. No one there at all. There was some camping gear in the living room, close by the front hall, several bundles and cases ready to be deployed.

 

Martin owned a spacious top-floor condo. He shared this level of the building with only one other unit. His long balcony stretched the length of two sides of the building. He had views both south and east. She paused to admire the city. Lake Ontario glistened with the lights of boats along the shore. She took in the offices and condo towers that lined the Toronto harbour, and in the centre of it all, the illuminated CN Tower.

 

She retreated from the cold wind and slid the glass door shut. She turned over the papers on Martin’s desk and the coffee table. Nothing out of the ordinary. In other rooms she gingerly went through drawers, looked over his bookshelves, and walked into his closets. She pulled the dirty laundry from the hamper in his bedroom. She learned from this that he changed his underwear and socks quite often, relative to the number of shirts she found. Was that a clue?  What was she was looking for? What object would tell her about his whereabouts?

 

She picked up an old cellphone on a bookshelf. The battery was dead. She hooked it up with the universal charger she kept in her purse. It sprang to life, but after a few minutes she saw the battery was not charging. When she disconnected the cable, it went dead. She plugged it back in and began to go through his contacts. For a businessman, there weren't many. This was odd. For the few contacts that were there, he had scrupulously added descriptions. Most were subordinates at his company with the same corporate phone number and a unique extension. There were a few friends, some university classmates. A few fellows who he played hockey with on a casual, amateur basis.

 

There was only one name for which there was no obvious connection.  A woman's name: Mrs. Talbot. No first name. Her company was listed as  Destiny Inc. Whereas other contacts had titles like Mr. or Ms. or no title at all, Mrs. Talbot actually had two titles: Mrs. and Mistress.

 

What man would identify his mistress in his phone's contact book? Why was she  Mrs. Talbot?Or was she Mistress Talbot? Melody wasn’t the jealous sort. Martin didn't really have a mistress. Oh. Perhaps he did? No, that would be absurd. Martin was too young to need one.

 

She slipped out of his condo, locked the door, and returned to her car. Back in her own apartment with his old cell phone on her desk, she looked up the make and model. It was about five years old. The battery could not be replaced. She used her own phone to call the number for Mrs. Talbot. The message played: "You have reached the phone number of Mistress Destiny. We must be swinging a whip or clamping some poor fool to the furniture. If you have the courage to meet me or to spend a night in my dungeon, leave your name and number. My torments can be exquisite, the pleasures unforgettable. My dungeon is insatiable. Show me your sorry ass. Leave a message. That’s an order." There was a short pause, then a beep from the recording machine.

 

"My name is Melody. I'm interested in a chat if I may, about the work you do and the services you provide. Here's my number. It's a cell number so you can text me if you like. Hope to hear from you." She did not mention Martin or how she’d obtained Mrs. Talbot’s number.

 

+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

 

Mrs. Talbot’s dungeon was in the most banal part of town, where the old main roads were lined with strip malls. The subdivisions behind these roads were packed with small and moderate sized dreary houses on large lots. The neighbourhood was over fifty years old. The larger than average parcels of land, meant every house was being over-valued. With the money, residential turnover was coming; the old residents were being made ridiculous offers for their homes. Real estate signs were everywhere.

 

From the minute she saw Melody, Mrs. Talbot (or Mistress Destiny) was interested, but puzzled. There was not the slightest kinky thing in the way Melody had dressed. She wore business attire, navy blue skirt to the knee. Black shoes with heels almost flat, a light grey overcoat against the unseasonably cold day. Usually a client would give some kind of clue by what they chose to wear, even if it was a piece of steel or silver jewelry or a ring on a finger.

 

Destiny had hoped, after their brief phone conversation, that Melody would be one of her rare lesbian clients. She’d worn her leather pants and cowboy boots. She’d chosen a quarter-cup leather bra, for support and to reveal her still-attractive breasts under her sheer white blouse. Might as well get her pierced nipples out there, under the new client's nose.

 

But no. It was looking as if the pretty young girl wasn't going to become a client after all. She wanted simply to ask questions. "My rate for an introductory session of two hours is $250.”

 

Melody balked. "I don't have that much on me."

 

"Come in. Don't stand in the damp on the porch."

 

She took Melody's overcoat and hung it in the front hall. Melody was wearing some kind of faint perfume. Something like vanilla. "I take credit cards."

 

Melody glanced at Destiny's ornately decorated leather boots and sleek leathered legs.

 

"C'mon honey. Time is money."

 

“I won’t be long, I promise.” Melody held out a photograph of Martin. "Do you know this man?"

 

"Are you a cop?"

 

"No. And he's not a cop either. He’s my boyfriend. I haven't seen him for a few days."

 

"I haven't seen him for a few months."

 

"But he used to come to you? I mean, did he come here?"

 

Destiny turned from the hall into the living room. Melody followed. She noticed several steel rings set into a thick black metal bar that ran almost the length of the ceiling.

 

"Yes he came here.” Destiny continued through her domain, not offering Melody a seat. They proceeded to the back of the home, and down a flight of stairs, to lowest floor of the split-level house. A large St. Andrews Cross dominated one side of the room. Along the end walls were horizontal wooden rows of BDSM equipment, chains, gags, and other paraphernalia. On the other one side wall were cabinets fronted by glass doors, and here and there, sets of drawers. The windows were blocked to keep the light out and perhaps to keep the sound in. Were those blocks of styrofoam behind the curtains? An eight-foot black steel rectangle dominated the middle of the room. “Normally no one even gets to look at my gear without paying for an hour. But you’re not looking for bondage, or anything, are you?”

 

“Looking for my boyfriend, in fact.” Melody tried to not be distracted by the S&M paraphernalia.  "You said you hadn’t seen him for a few months?"

 

"I'm not a missing persons bureau, sweetie." Destiny tried to make eye contact, but Melody looked down, then around at the furnishings, even though she didn’t want to. She was uncomfortable, embarrassed.

 

"But you know where he is?"

 

"No. But supposing I did?"

 

"Would you tell me?"

 

"Are you submissive yourself? Or were you the one that took Martin away from me, by offering to dominate him for free?"

 

"So he was your client?”

 

“As I said, I haven’t seen or heard from him for a couple of months.” Destiny paused. “Are you submissive girl? Oh, god please say yes.”

 

“Not my bag. And my tastes are actually none of your business."

 

"Maybe. But you know, I could see you in leather, cracking a whip. You ever done that, Melody? Launched a leather whip at a naked body? No? Or would you prefer me to tie you up? I mean really, seriously tie you? Has Martin been doing that, honey? No hogties for you lately? Missing your boy? Does he even know how to hogtie a woman?"

 

Melody unleashed a little of her own sarcasm. “Destiny. Huh. What’s that? A family name?”

 

The older woman laughed. “Works better than Talbot.”

 

“If it weren’t for the possibility that you know where Martin Porter is, I wouldn’t be here at all."

 

“You’re free to leave any time.”

 

Melody knew she held a weak hand. She could file a missing persons report with the police. One day soon, someone at Martin’s company would do that, when they realized Martin wasn’t camping in Algonquin Park. But only Melody knew that Destiny’s real name and number was on Martin’s old cell phone, and presumably his current one too. But threatening Destiny wouldn’t get her any information. “You always dress like that?” Melody pointed to her blouse, the rude way Destiny’s nipples were front and center, making it almost impossible to not look at them. “Most of us don’t want men staring at our tits.”

 

“I’ve been a long time in this business.” Destiny handed her a photo album.

 

Melody sat on a leather couch, put the album on the coffee table, and began to flip the pages. There were pictures of Destiny when she was younger, various scenes with clients, and photos from the many BDSM conferences she had attended. In several pictures Destiny was speaking from a podium to a large audience. In others, she was part of a group of women dressed in latex or leather. Most brandished whips, canes, or crops for the pose. All seemed heavily made up. Melody imagined Destiny might be close to sixty years old. She leaned against the edge of a black, leather-covered, four-legged punishment bench. Melody knew what it was for, how a victim could be restrained a few different ways across it. Shiny steel rings glinted beside the warm, polished, black leather knee rests and the padded central cushion. Melody imagined Martin spread face down on it, displaying his backside. She closed the album, stood up, and approached Destiny. "He's alive, right? Will you tell me where he is?"

 

"Since you're so keen to find him. I could arrange for you to meet him. I could get you there. I wouldn’t take you myself, but if you give me your full name and address, and what time of day you’re usually available. I'll get you there. And since you are of limited means, I'll bear the costs. Martin will pay in the end.”

 

“What will happen?”

 

“To you? I can’t say really. Who among us really knows our future? For the right person, I think it might be exciting.” After a pause, she said, “You will be safe. You’ll be close to Martin. That’s what you want isn’t it?”

 

Melody thought she heard a threat in Destiny’s proposal. But despite this misgiving, she nodded and gave Destiny her address and her work hours. She figured there would be another phone call. Perhaps Destiny would arrange for another meeting or some kind of down payment. Melody wasn’t sure of anything.

 

“You will be safe,” Destiny repeated.

 

Melody left Destiny’s house, walked up the street and put the key in her driver’s side door. What had she agreed to? Nothing really. Forget it, she told herself. You just wasted a few hours.

 

Once she was alone, Destiny called the man known by his moustache. “I have a job for you.”

 

Next she called Magda. She'd be back at the Abduction Company mansion by now. Magda and Blaise had scooped up Martin and she had Martin's keys and cell phone. His key set had included the keys to his girl-friend’s building and her apartment. “Destiny, I have her name and address too.”

 

“Her name is Melody. She just left my place,” Destiny replied. “What do you think?”

 

"I think he’s trying to negotiate his way out of here,” Magda said. “After we took his keys and cell phone and locked him up, Martin told me which keys are hers. We had to give his cell phone to Head Mistress of course, and she sent it to the data centre for examination. I'll send the keys to you, by courier.” Magda also told Destiny, “The girl works for a travel agent, mostly online stuff, late shifts. Likes to work out. Plays tennis, competitive bike-riding, hiking, plays guitar, writes poetry. A real outdoorsy type. Probably smarter than Martin, to hear him talk about her.”

 

When she received the keys to Melody's the next day, Destiny passed them, along with Magda’s information, over to Moustache. They agreed to call Burly for the job as it would involve a transportation casket and a van. Burly rapidly wrote down the necessary details. “She lives alone? Works nights, you say? Goes to the gym on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursdays in the afternoon. Home by four. Got it.”

 

Then Destiny called the front desk of the Abduction Company. "Client Ten here. I have a reservation for you. The circumstances for this guest – and it's not me – will be somewhat unusual." The voice at the other end of the line entered the information into their system.

 

"Yes, I am Client Ten. Yes, it's been a while. Put this one on my account. Her name is Melody Throckmortense. This is what I know about her . . ."

 

 

+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

 

Martin’s first full day began with an examination by a company nurse. A few welts from last night’s session with Head Mistress stood out on Martin’s back. He was trying to eat his breakfast: buttered whole grain bread, bacon and eggs, an orange, apple and blueberries and blackberries and some plain yoghurt. Lots of protein and fibre, he thought. No processed sugar. Number Two had told him he was over-weight.

 

The nurse’s examination kept interrupting his attempt to eat. Martin wore a metal belt that pressed uncomfortably into his gut as he sat on the stool. That was a disincentive to eat too. He wore the metal ankle cuffs he’d slept in. His hands were unfettered.

 

Nurse’s red lipstick gleamed under the cell’s main ceiling light. She glanced at Martin and smiled. Perhaps she had many calls to make, he thought. He wished she would stay with him. He felt lonely, with only male prisoners for (distant) company. The nurse was dressed all in white: a white leather corset over a white latex dress. Her dress and latex cap were decorated with red crosses. One above the pocket over her left breast. The other centred on the front of her cap. She checked her tablet for something. She picked up a swab and dipped it in iodine.

 

Martin cried out when her swab touched his back.

 

Number Two opened the cell door and stepped out. The hall was more brightly lit than the cell. “You’re going to get some sunshine today. I’m told it’s unseasonably warm. You’re booked for training at nine.

 

Despite the dabs of pain every other second, Martin tried to eat faster, to finish everything on the tray. Before he could however, the nurse and Number Two led him back to the bed and he was chained, face down. Steel cuffs held his arms and ankles to the four corners of the steel frame that circled his cot. The nurse began by using a series of stencils to mark his skin on his lower back, then she began to ink him with a needle.

 

“What are you doing back there? What are you putting on my back?”

 

“You’re getting marked, with the number 176.” When she was done, she applied some moisturizing jelly and a large bandage to cover the area. She spoke to Number Two. “You or he can take it off in about five hours. Sometime in the afternoon.” She then lowered her voice and whispered, so Martin could not hear. Then she left. Number Two unlocked Martin from the bed frame and helped him stand.

 

“How does it feel? Your back.”

 

“It aches. I’ve never been tattooed before.“

 

Number Two gave him a couple of pills and a glass of water. “Take these. The pain will pass.”

 

“Now, put on your chastity cage.”  Two held out a bag containing the parts of the plastic device he’d worn yesterday in the van, the one lined with shock pads for electrical discipline. Martin struggled with it. Mistress Blaise had put it on the first time, while he was being brought from the garage to the Abduction Company. Number Two explained the finer points of getting his cock into chastity including the use of a little lube on his cock head.

 

When Martin was finished, he grinned. “Feels good. Like I am being held inside an endless tube.”

 

“Endless? Wait till you start to swell. In fact I see your cock head cramming itself already against the plastic tip of the cage. Oh, don’t let me forget, I have a steel cock cage for you too, for later. A relatively short one, but nothing too tiny. See? It’s mostly a steel tube, with a pee hole, circled by smaller holes at the end.”

 

Number Two turned him around and put on the light over the wall-mirror. Martin saw the steel cage in Two’s hand and the plastic one he wore on his cock and balls. He had no idea a chastity cage could feel so good. He was no longer furtively or compulsively touching himself. An orgasm was no longer an option. There was no need to fondle. Number Two deposited the  steel cage into a cloth bag and put it on the table. He pulled Martin’s hands behind him and locked his steel cuffs together. Martin immediately felt more helpless and vulnerable. How many people would see him today like this? Naked but for the plastic cage and the wrist-cuffs. No clothes in the cell for him to wear. Number Two on the other hand, was fully clothed in a dark blue uniform and wore a blue peaked cap, like those Martin had seen on the male and female jailers going back and forth in the prison area.

 

“Single submissive men are known by numbers and traded by mistresses, by prior permission contract. Like the one you signed last night with Head Mistress. With your number, any senior or mid-level mistress can call up your contract on her cell phone or tablet.” Number Two grinned. “You were tattooed for easy identification.”

 

Martin continued to stare at this new shocking image of himself in the mirror. To have his hands drawn back while he was caged, felt so, so, so . . . well it was indescribable. Oh no. Breathtaking. That was the word.

 

“Open wide.” Number Two stood behind him and raised a hard rubber pony-bit to his face. Martin opened his mouth. He had no idea how it would feel. Two slipped the bit between Martin’s teeth. “Bend your head down.” Martin felt the bit pulling at the corner of his mouth, first on one side, then the other. Finally, the bit was pulled back evenly on both sides. It was hard, but bearable. Number Two attached the double straps around the back of Martin’s head. He touched Martin’s chin. Martin raised his gaze to see his reflection in the mirror. Number Two slid a gloved hand down Martin’s belly and found his chastity cage, rattling the lock. He pushed down on the cage, almost forcing it between his legs. That felt good too. His cock was had swelled for sure, and was pressing firmly against the confinement. Yes, he was aroused. He felt he could trust Number Two with anything. Both horny and weak, Martin just wanted to get down on his knees before anyone. Two was handsome. He was here. Available. Martin wanted to be held. He felt vulnerable and he loved it.

 

Number Two was handsome: an older man, closely shaved, his hair greying, but neatly trimmed. Martin tried to imagine how he might seduce him, but was quickly stumped. He had no sexual experience with a man. He’d never fantasized about male dominance before, though he had thought once or twice about being ordered to suck a man’s cock by his domina, by Mistress Destiny at the time.

 

Martin didn’t even know Two’s real name but it hardly mattered. His cock inside the sleeve of the chastity was driving him mad. Two’s gentle pushing and pressure on his balls, the way he lifted and dropped his bound genitals between his legs: it was all terribly exciting.

 

Two continued restraining him. He loosened the bit gag and collared Martin with a three inch wide band of thick, heavy leather. He slid the collar under the strap of the bit gag. He tightened the collar fasteners. Now it was hard to breathe. Martin could barely open his mouth, but he was able to take the bit when Two reinserted it. The bit was strapped to the same tension as before. Martin’s jaw felt like it was jacked open. He drooled around the bit. His neck was relentlessly stretched and compressed by the collar. He saw himself in the mirror. He wanted Two to take him. Now.  Please show me your cock and put it up my ass, just as Head Mistress and Mistress Magda had ploughed him the night before.

 

“Say something.”

 

Martin gasped, “Thath’s tight rund de bit.” His voice rasped.

 

“In five minutes your first pony training session will begin. We’d better get a move on.” Number Two attached leather ankle cuffs and hobbled Martin’s feet with three inches of chain. Two attached a heavy chain leash with a leather handle to Martin’s collar and pulled him out of the cell.

 

On the elevator, they stopped one floor above where they had began. A mistress with a young girl enslaved in a complex rubber dress from neck to toe, got on. Her arms were held back in the encasing folds of rubber. Her pendulous breasts were thrust forward; they strained against the upper part of the dress. Her nipples were swollen, her piercings, with U-hooks installed, were evident under the rubber. The girl’s mouth was held open with a mouthlock, a metal frame that pushed vertically against her lower and upper palate and the teeth in her upper and lower jaw.. Her tongue protruded through the opening in the centre of the frame, to the edge of her lower lip. It moved animatedly back and forth, as if it had a mind of its own, or perhaps she was just trying to adjust to the recent placement of the frame in her mouth, that forced her mouth perpetually open. Perhaps she didn’t know what to do with her tongue, how to find rest. She was drooling, rather more than Martin was, drops of saliva running down her rubber dress. She gurgled rather attractively, Martin thought. He was a little taller than her. She looked upwards at him, giving him a perfect angle, to see the adjustable bars at the four corners of the mouthlock, by which her mistress could raise or lower the pressure to hold her jaw open.

 

Martin wanted to make small talk, to ask the mistress a question, or ask the girl how she felt, but he remembered how wispy his voice sounded, how the collar made him short of breath. Martin had also just noticed that Number Two held a cane in his right hand. With his left hand gripping Martin’s leash, he could be beat him in an instant. He didn’t want the girl slave to witness him taking a caning.

 

“Going up, good.” the mistress said. Number Two made small talk: “A new one?”

 

“Yes. Making good progress. She’s enrolled in the Servitude Program. Almost done. Not sure if she’ll be sold or not. She doesn’t look good in the traditional maid uniforms, but she’s quite compliant. Has achieved high marks in her earlier classes, especially Deportment. Haven’t you, my little slutty one?” The girl blushed deeply.

 

“I must say the rubber suits her,” Number Two said. “We’re off to Introductory Pony. This one just arrived yesterday. He had an exciting indoctrination with Head Mistress last night.”

 

“Fun times ahead,” the Mistress smiled at both men. Number Two poked Martin in the stomach with the cane. He lifted his cock cage with the tip of the cane. It felt so hard under his vulnerable balls. Both the mistress and her slave stared at Martin’s confined cock. His balls had reddened with the pressure from the base ring below and the steel shaft on top that held his cock down at a fixed angle. Martin quietly moaned. His whole groin ached. His face ached too from the bit.

 

All four stepped out of the elevator into a sun-filled hallway. The long windows gave a nice view of the grounds. At the crest of a hill was a barn. The mistress and her young female slave turned right. Martin and Number Two, pressed straight ahead, through glass doors into the fresh air. For October, it was surprisingly warm. They began along the pathway to the barn, but Martin’s progress was so slow with the hobble chain between his ankles that Number Two took it off. “If we don’t hurry, we’ll be late. You don’t want the Senior Equestrian to make you her first example of how disobedience or tardiness is punished.”

 

They sped up. Martin’s sneakers slid on the dew-covered stones. At some distance he saw slaves raking leaves and tidying the yard. On the other side, mostly naked gardeners of both sexes overturned earth with shovels and sometimes, with their bare hands. Wheelbarrows went back and forth from dumpsters and composting containers. “That’s a vegetable garden. Over there are fruit orchards. There are whipping posts, public stocks and frames scattered about, to remind slaves to always comply and to work as fast as possible.”

 

At last they were at the barn. Number Two pressed an electronic lock that dangled from his belt. “We’re right on time.” The heavy wooden door slid open. The interior was well lit by skylights in the roof and lights on the beams which criss-crossed the building. There were six men and three women – all naked – standing in a line, facing a sparse audience in chairs. They were being dressed by their handlers for the first pony class of the semester. Leather and metal equipment lay everywhere on tables behind them.

 

One of the male instructors greeted Number Two and pointed to the end of the line, where Martin should stand. The instructor glanced at Martin’s cock cage and then turned his attention to Martin’s collar. “His face is rather red. Isn’t that one a little tight, Francis?”

 

Martin noted Number Two’s real name. They loosened and removed Martin’s bit, followed by the leather collar. “You o.k.?” Two whispered, standing close to him. Martin worked his jaw. His mouth was dry. He nodded. “Yeah. I’m o.k. I like collars. That didn’t feel too tight. I have some experience with them.” Number Two smiled, glad that Martin was still in good spirits. He unlocked his wrist cuffs, but the steel bands remained on his wrists. Martin let his arms come forward. His steel ankle cuffs were removed. The short walk from the building to the barn had left chafing marks on his ankles. He stood side by side with the nine other potential ponies, before a small audience of instructors and assistants and dominants. Number Two asked Martin how his chastity felt. “Now it hurts. When I put it on, it fitted fine, but now it seems to be getting worse.” Number Two looked closely and lifted it gently. “Chafing. It’s o.k. if you stay relatively immobile, but out here, this course will, over the days, really demand a lot of movement from you. Best to take it off now. I’ll use a slightly larger base ring on you next time. Actually, come to think of it, we’ll go with that metal chastity this afternoon.”

 

Number Two produced the key to Martin’s cage and let him remove it himself. Number Two put all the cage parts in a little carry bag as Martin removed them. He was the only male in the line-up whose cock was free. One of the three women wore a chastity belt. Still standing close Number Two added, “It takes time to become acclimatized to long periods of chastity and doing yard work with your device on.”

 

The Senior Equestrian came up to Number Two and asked him to step aside, to join the small group of assistants and dominants who had brought slaves. She looked Martin in the eye, as if examining his vision. She continued examining his body closely. She ordered his arms high above his head and then told him to very slowly drop them. She stepped behind. “Number 176. Was this done this morning?”

 

“Yes Mistress.”

 

She glanced at the screen of the tablet she carried. For a few moments she reviewed his record. “First name?”

 

“Martin.”

 

“Number Two? Come back and lock these wrists.” Number Two hurried forward and joined Martin’s cuffs with a padlock. The Senior Equestrian continued inspecting him; she spent a lot of time on his feet, looking at his soles and toes with particular care. Then she moved up to his knees and hips, ordering him to display his legs and adopt various stretches and bends. She took a thin probe from her assistant and put it in his ass. She used calipers to measure his fat in several areas. At last she looked at him again. “Overall you’re in good shape. A little fat, for your age.” She gestured for him to bend at the waist. She gently touched the pressure marks left by the bit gag and collar. She held her rubber gloved hand a few inches below his face. Martin did nothing but look at it and then began to straighten up. Innocently, he let his gaze rest directly meet hers, then his eyes, without him being aware, drifted down to her breasts, partly concealed by her starched white shirt and unbuttoned cream jacket.

 

The Senior Equestrian suddenly slapped his face hard. His cheek burned. He saw stars. She took a firm grip of his hair and yanked him forcefully down. He was bent at the waist again. His bound hands swung to one side. One of the aides pulled a hook on a chain down from the ceiling and connected Martin’s padlock to it. The Senior Equestrian took the control module and activated the winch motor. Martin’s arms were quickly raised high behind him. He groaned.

 

She spoke to the room.  “See that? A classic strappado.” She seized the heavy cane her assistant offered and struck Martin’s buttocks three times rapidly and with force. After the third stroke Martin began to sob. He thought he would faint from pain if she hit him again.

 

“I know you were beaten rather severely last night. Still, you must obey!” She presented her gloved hand under Martin’s face, for a second time. “Kiss it!”

 

He quickly complied. She handed the cane to her assistant and grabbed his hair again. “One measly little kiss? Put a little sincerity into it!” Martin tried hard to reach her fingers with his lips wanting to cover the back of her rubber glove with kisses and nibbling, to show his affection and obedience. This put his shoulders in greater agony, but he desperately had to avoid more caning. The Senior Equestrian addressed Number Two. “Please tell me he hasn’t taken any Power Dynamics or Etiquette classes. It’s the only excuse for his incompetence.”

 

“You’re right Mistress. He hasn’t. His arrival was not well planned I’m afraid. His training is all out of sequence. He was tattooed just an hour ago. The Education Director hasn’t finished scheduling his classes. I apologize for him missing your hand signal.”

 

Martin’s arms were hoisted a little higher. Now he stood painfully on his toes. The Senior Equestrian glanced at him and then turned to the rest of the room. With Martin delicately staggering behind her, almost like a ballerina, not daring to cry out, she began a five minute introductory speech about pony-play in general. She included a few specifics about obedience, manners, and what a domme should expect from even a partly-trained human animal. She made side-comments and gestures that seemed critical of Martin, struggling behind her.

 

Finally, she turned and nodded to the assistant with the winch control. Martin’s arms were lowered. He allowed himself one agonizing groan. He was glad he hadn’t interrupted her presentation. His shoulders were on fire. His wrists were unlocked. He was permitted to sit on a chair, arms at his sides, keeping his place in the line with the others. He saw Number Two grin at him from across the room.

 

The class spent the next half-hour finding boots, bits, bridles, reins, and girth belts for the ponies in the boxes against one wall. Measuring tapes appeared in every assistant’s hand. A silky cart was brought in and one of the women was hooked up to it. When she moved out of the barn, another cart was fetched and one of the men was attached to it. He wore a stainless steel chastity cage, a bird-cage, Martin thought it was called.

 

The easiest part of dressing Martin was finding him a good-fitting bridle/head restraint. Jokingly, Number Two praised him for having an absolutely average-sized head. Several steel bits were tried in his mouth. All but one was hinged. The reins were attached and Martin underwent his most humiliating moment since his arrival, when the Senior Equestrian demonstrated to her subordinates the various ways that new ponies can misunderstand the intention of their drivers. She showed how easy it might be to carelessly harm the pony’s neck, or to cause injury through being too forceful. She did this in an expertly, without hurting Martin at all. Her hands could be as gentle as a chambermaid smoothing out a pillow. Still, Martin would have rather grovelled at her feet before the class rather than have his head pulled back and forth by the reins. She demonstrated all the key moves with the reins and dominated him without a word of direction, speaking only to the class.

 

Martin had settled into the role of her demonstration slave. His steel cuffed wrists had been refastened behind him. She ordered him to his knees. Then she drew the reins under one of her boots and pulled up the other side, forcing him down, face first to the straw-covered floor. He was ordered to clean her boots with his tongue. He could smell and taste the dirt from the ground around the barn. At one point he lost his balance, and fell from his knees onto his side, much to the amusement of several dommes.

 

The Senior Whipmaker took over for twenty minutes and spoke to the class. He also briefly used Martin as a target: for his dressage whip. “Of course, 176 was whipped last night, and he’s been recently tattooed on his lower back. I noted this as soon as he walked in. And the previous instructor just gave him three cane strokes. So I’m going to go easy on him. In any case, I would never strike the lower back, except gently with a single tail. We always avoid unprotected internal organs.”

 

The Whipmaker’s technique and accuracy were exquisite. He showed how posture, grip, and distance made all the difference in striking one’s pony exactly where one wants to. He would call out where the tip of the whip would next land. And over and over, it landed where he predicted.

 

There was discussion of the various implements that were useful for horse-play, for racing horses, or for displaying them in the show-ring. A cat of nine-tails for example was not recommended. “A riding crop is the perfect implement for guiding a pony, though every domme will of course develop their preferences. Long or short, light or heavy, with whatever kind of tip one prefers. The tip of a crop is most usually a leather tongue, formally known as a keeper. The thin end is intended to make contact with the horse (or human horse), whilst the keeper prevents the their skin from being marked.”

 

“Crops and other kinds of whips, as you know, came in all weights and lengths.” The Senior Whipmaker continued in exhaustive detail about a few of them. Eventually, the Senior Equestrian resumed the instruction. The dressing of the ponies resumed as well.

 

Martin was given a softer collar that fit him well, limiting his movement without impeding either his breathing or speech. He was measured for a sleek, leather girth (“for the show ring” the Senior Equestrian said) and a comfortable fleece girth for his training. Because of his recent tattoo, the training girth would be a new one delivered to his domme, once it was made. Straps were brought to go over his shoulders and around his upper chest and between his legs. He was fitted for an anal plug and waist and hip attachments to facilitate pulling a cart.

 

Various sizes of pony boots were brought out, piled high on a cart and each domme was instructed how to put them on their charges. The boots were arched underfoot and steel reinforced through the sole, so the wearer’s heels would not touch the ground. For now, even the correct size of boots proved impossible for Martin to wear for more than a few minutes. In fact only two of the three women and one of the other six men could wear them for any duration. Instead, Martin was switched over to a pair of “half-boots” with solid wood raised heels, to gradually accustom a new pony’s feet to walking with heels raised. Martin realized the slanted look was most desired, and that all good ponies would strive to achieve this. He would have to practice walking on his toes while he had free time in his prison cell.

 

After the class had been dismissed, everyone milled about. Several teaching assistants were gathering and putting away equipment. Martin’s unpierced nipples were noted by several of the dommes. None of the other ponies-in-training dared say anything, even though class was over. Those who were already pierced were given a supplemental talk on how piercings can be integrated into pony play and into one’s submission as a cart animal.

 

Martin and Number Two made their way back across the lawn to the main building. His hands were cuffed behind as usual, but for now Number Two now carried Martin’s collar and leash in a bag. Martin wore his sneakers as before. He held the laces and a new pair of training half-boots in his fingers behind him.

 

“For the next few days, you’ll begin with two hours of Pony Training. But today, because we needed so much time to fit the equipment on ten new ponies, the session was three hours. Hey, it’s time for lunch!” Suddenly, Number Two’s phone indicated an incoming message. “Though I suppose I should start referring to you simply as 1-7-6.”

 

Number Two checked his device.  “Hmm. To what do we owe this honour? Head Mistress wants you to join her in the outdoor restaurant on the south side. In half an hour. She says: See you at the Clumsy Slave. “

 

+ + + End of Part Five + + +

 

 


2 Responses

Craig
Craig

June 08, 2019

Amazing story and writing! I’m enthralled and riveted!

john churchill
john churchill

March 05, 2019

excellent story, please keep it going

Leave a comment

Subscribe