Please consider it as a whole story and be kind enough not to vote it down because there are some aspects you do not enjoy. I have tried to honestly record everything that took place and not pick and choose various parts that I felt were more acceptable. Thank you.
Day 3
The third day commenced with my usual whipping to remind me to obey at all times. The rest of the day was given over to ‘Humiliation.’ For some reason, right from my teenage years, I have enjoyed the thought and later the reality of humiliation, and I do not know why. I just do.
At breakfast, not only did I have to beg on my hands and knees as usual, but I had to place any food I was given in a dog bowl and eat it like a hound. I even had to try and impersonate the noises a dog makes as it eats and wriggle my bum as if I was wagging a tail.
The next challenge was drinking. The men had stocked up on plenty of soft drinks plus, of course, tea and coffee. That day when I was offered a drink, I had to sit up on my knees with my mouth open while someone poured it onto me from a height. Invariably both the floor and I became wet and sticky, and as punishment for not catching all that was offered, I was made to mop the floor after I had licked up anything I could.
Once that little job was complete, and I had cleared away all the breakfast paraphernalia, I was made to kneel and kiss all the men’s feet, working my way around them all. This exercise not only included kissing but licking between the big and second toes while one of the men stood over me with a riding crop hovering near my bum, waiting to be used if I failed to do the job correctly. As I received six sharp but controlled ‘whacks’ across my backside, I must have failed rather miserably.
A short break followed as the men attired themselves in preparation for again taking me outside. I was allowed to put on a pair of trainers to walk around the side of the building to the woods that bordered the rear of the property. A very muddy area was to the side of a narrow track about fifty meters from the house.
‘Get in and sit down,’ I was ordered.
I took off my shoes and stepped cautiously into the muddy area. I was amazed when my foot went straight in about two feet. I lost my balance and, to the great delight of everyone, topped in. Not only was the peaty mud cold, but it had a slimy feeling about it.
‘Look at the little pig wallowing in her mud hole,’ the men laughed.
‘What a filthy creature.’
‘Get right in. Up to your neck.’
‘Plaster yourself head and hair too.’
I sat covered to my neck and looked back at the men watching in sheer delight as they waited for me to dunk my head.
I thought I’d try another one of my little games.
‘If you want my head dunking, one of you will have to get in here with me and do it,’ I said with a satisfied smirk.
Somehow the men must have been aware that I might try and disobey because four of them produced two huge buckets. Without saying a word, they gingerly walked around the edge of the mud hole in which I was sitting and tipped the contents of both straight over me. I was indeed plastered and humbled, much to everyone’s enjoyment.
I was made to sit in my filthy condition for around fifteen minutes before being hosed off, thankfully with warm water, outside the back door. I then went to the shower to wash properly with the mandatory two support staff to help me out. The two men ensured that, as on previous days, steamy things took place between them and me.
Lunchtime saw me both eating and drinking from the dog bowl.
The afternoon brought a first for me. I was told to stand in the great hall, and as I did so, various leather straps and buckles were placed over me. I presumed this was some type of new bondage equipment until it suddenly dawned on me what was happening. I was being made into a ponygirl.
I had never seen the leather belts and reins that made up the harness. I had, however, worn a pony’s tail a couple of times in the past made from a butt plug with flowing hairs attached to it. As the final buckles were fastened, I wondered what was planned.
Someone put my trainers on my feet and tied them before leading me back out through the front door. There standing next to my parked car, was a one-person pony trap. I stopped dead in my tracks. It had not been there when I had walked around the house before lunch, but it was now, as large as life.
I was harnessed into the shafts and told to pull. I expected it to be a strain but was surprised to discover the trap was relatively light. After a few steps, I was stopped, and one of the men climbed aboard while another passed him a carriage whip. The whip consisted of a long, sturdy rod with an equally long leather lash on the end. It was designed to crack as it flew through the air; however, I sensed that it could provide a pretty sharp crack on my back or breasts if required.
My job was to gallop, as best I could, like a pony pulling each of the guys partway along the drive and around the sizable parking area. I was also required to avoid the many potholes in the track. Pulling the trap with an extra twelve to seventeen stone on board was a far cry to pulling it empty, especially with the rider and onlookers enthusiastically encouraging me to go faster.
Each driver ensured I heard and felt the whip crack against my naked body. The weather had turned colder from the previous day, and despite my exercise, I was pretty chilly by the time I was providing a carriage ride for driver number six. My body was potted with goosebumps, and my nipples, as they always do when cold, went hard and erect.
As I pulled up to unload driver seven, two men approached me with a small wooden sign attached to two short wires leading to wooden clothes pegs. As they opened the pegs, I noticed the grips had been serrated. These were attached to my nipples. The sign read, ‘I am not a pony. I am a cow.’ The pressure on my already cold and sensitive nipples sent barbs of pain coursing through my body.
‘That should help her to speed up,’ someone commented to a general response of mirth.
Off I galloped again, leather harness around my body, butt plug tail in place, sign dangling from my nipples and whip hovering menacingly behind my back waiting to crack over me for any failure of duty or other misdemeanours.
By the time I was pulling numbers eleven and twelve, I was pretty tired and almost drawing at a walking pace despite the best entreaties of the whip to encourage me along. When I finally stopped to allow the last man to get off, my legs were like jelly, and despite the cold, I was sweating profusely.
I walked, still wearing my leather harness, girdle and bit into the house and crashed out on a large settee in the lounge. To their great credit, the men brought me a cup of tea and a bun to revive me while two took it upon themselves to remove the sign and my tack while massaging my legs from my calves to more sensitive areas.