The last Chapter

 

 

I am still locked in the female body I acquired so long ago now but in reality I have been reduced to the status of an animal. There are about a dozen women here, all equally debased in our different ways. The place is several miles from any sort of civilisation, a large house set in a very large area of park and agricultural land. My training had been arduous and I would guess that they are satisfied that it has been completely successful. I have no means of knowing how long I have been here - even the regularity of what might have been my monthly cycle has been suppressed. For myself I admit that I am completely tamed. There is nothing to be gained now by resisting them. I am nothing. I do exactly what they demand of me for fear of worse and through lack of any means of avoiding them. I must submit.

I am kept in what I can only describe as a stable. It must be a stable because I live in it and to all intents and purposes, I am a mare. I haven’t been allowed to wear clothes since I arrived here. I do wear specially made boots, boots which are locked on to my feet. They make me walk and run on my toes and they are fitted with delicate metal horse shoes so that I clip and clop with every step. And when I am working, which is almost every hour of the day, I wear my harness.

The harness is of shiny black leather, mostly thin straps. One strap is fitted tightly round my waist and another set of straps are fitted over my shoulders and under my breasts, squeezing them together and thrusting them forward. Two polished brass rings are fitted over my nipples and screwed tightly around them. A pair of bells dangle from these rings so that every bounce of my breasts causes them to jingle. And when I am made to run, they bounce a lot! My hair is brushed back into a pony tail and has grown longer while I have been trained. My hands are held in a pair of leather gauntlets which make it impossible to use my fingers. These gauntlets have heavy rings attached to them which can be fitted to the shaft of my cart. That’s right, my cart. I am used as a driving pony!

I wouldn’t dare to rebel. Apart from the pain of the whip, they have a greater hold over me - the threat of far worse treatment. I must confess that since I have co-operated and accepted my training I haven’t been fucked at all. True, men have played with me, stroked my body and put fingers inside me. But I haven’t actually been fucked. There are several women who do get fucked - quite regularly and not at all pleasantly from what I can gather. And then there are the bitches.

I call them bitches because as far as I can see, that is what they have become, just as I can only think of myself now as a mare or pony. Their harness is worn all the time - a belt around the waist with straps to their knees and elbows. They too wear gauntlets but theirs end in extended doggy paws. Their straps force them to adopt a permanent crouching position, allowing them to move only on all fours. I don’t know how it is done, probably through something in their food, but they have become very hairy, all over their bodies except their breasts which seem so naked and prominent by being hairless. The nearest they have to adornment, apart from the heavy brass studded leather collars, is their tails! I suspect that these have been thrust into their arses somehow and I would imagine that they are very uncomfortable. I do know that their masters demand that they show pleasure by wagging them. The bitches are kept in kennels at the back of the house, the other side from the stables so that I don’t see them every day. Beside the stables there are more kennels but the two occupants are real dogs. They are large, perhaps a little larger than the bitches, with grey fur and very sharp looking teeth. The men who keep us here have indicated that they are there to guard us and prevent any attempt at escape but I think they are used for other purposes.

It is these other purposes which make me determined to remain as I am. The threat which they use to control us is that we can be transformed into those bitches. Being kept in the kennels and made to walk always on all fours might not seem so bad but we are encouraged to use our imaginations. Every week or so, when there is a large party or when we have ‘special’ visitors, one or two of the bitches are taken into the house. They are fitted with heavy studded collars for these visits and are dragged rather than led in. Then, about an hour later a man will come and collect one or both of the dogs. We only see them being taken into the house as well. What happens next is only imagination since none of us has ever seen it and the women, the bitches, never talk about it, even if they could. But the way they walk when they are brought out in the morning only provokes the most lurid imaginings, nightmares for any woman. I hope that it isn’t true, that they are not subjected to the depraved and bestial treatment I imagine. But I am certainly not prepared to risk joining them. I have no wish to find out what really happens in there overnight.

To avoid any chance of being demoted to the bitch status, we three mares allow ourselves to be treated as if we really were ponies. We make ourselves as comfortable as we can on the straw in our stables, stand still as we are harnessed to our carts and allow ourselves to be driven, responding to the reins and to the drivers’ whips. But the first time it happened, I almost rebelled, despite the threat of being bitched.

I had been taught to draw to cart, my hands fixed to the shafts by the rings on my gauntlets. Other straps also held me to the cart by my waist. The cart itself is rather like a rickshaw I suppose so I can think of myself as just a rickshaw girl. That way it is easier to bear. My cart will carry one passenger or, at a pinch, two. It is harder to pull two, especially on the long rise up to the house. The task is made to seem easier by the frequent use of the whip, which does sting and, when it is used spitefully, cut. Anyway, I had been properly trained and had learned how to behave myself in the way they required, standing still while I waited for my passenger to mount, responding to the flick of the reins or the ‘cluck’ before it was necessary for him to use the whip. There had been several of their ‘parties’ while I was being trained so I had to get used to being inspected and driven by strangers as well as the man who was training me. And then, one morning he seemed to be taking special care with my preparation. I had been thoroughly washed down - a hose pipe and cold water - and my harness had been specially polished. The usual tit bells were replaced with a much grander pair and I was also fitted with a belled collar. My hair was brushed back into the pony tail and brushed until it shone. More little bells were fitted to my waist harness and I was fitted between the shafts of the best cart - all polished wood and gold fittings. The route I was driven wasn’t the usual one, we seemed to be going much further from the house than usual. And then suddenly we seemed to be out on an open road. Until then I had only been seen by the people who ran the estate, although there must have been about twenty of them. Now, suddenly, I was aware that I might now be seen by anyone. I should have been watchful, grateful for the chance to find out more about my surroundings, taking advantage of the opportunity to plan an escape route. But all I could feel was cold fear, shame and embarrassment. What if someone saw me like this?

And of course someone did. And not just some one. I was driven right into the middle of what looked like a typical C****** rural market town. There were only a few cars but lots of bicycles and other carts, rickshaws and heavier wagons. And, of course, as I was driven along the streets, all the other traffic stopped and everyone gawped at me. I felt awful. I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me - but it didn’t. I felt myself growing redder and redder as I tried to hide myself and avoid their stares. It took so long to get to my destination. And even there things didn’t improve. I had been driven to the local railway station. And we had to wait to pick up an important visitor!

It started badly and got steadily worse. I had to stand between the shafts of the cart in full view of the people hurrying past to get to the station. And not only those who had that sort of reason for being there. At first it was the other cab and rickshaw men. I suppose I wasn’t the first woman they had seen being treated as I was but I think I must have been the first who looked so western. They seemed to get permission from my driver to inspect me. They admired my harness first, pointing to the bright brass and the shiny leather, chattering among themselves. Then they seemed to get the nod which allowed them to touch me as well as the harness. The first one just let his hands stray from the bright brass decoration on my nipple, jingling my bells with his fingers first and then by bouncing my breast. Once he had been allowed that liberty, the men began to take more and more. I couldn’t avoid them - they were all around me and I was firmly held by my harness and the cart. Their hands roamed all over my breasts and upper body. My hair seemed to hold a special fascination - they stroked and pulled it, holding it up and away from my head, forcing me to move my head around with it. Then they moved down to my legs, stroking my smooth calves and thighs. And again it was my hair which attracted and held their attention. This time it was the bush of hair above my crotch. I kept my legs pressed together, fearful of being inspected that intimately and so publicly but at first my entrance wasn’t the source of their interest. One after another of them took the opportunity which my almost complete availability offered to rub his hands across my pudendum and over my belly. I couldn’t understand what they were saying but I guessed that the source of their fascination was the blondeness of even these hairs.

That fascination extended to others. For about ten minutes I was left alone there while my driver went to collect our visitor. He hobbled me first by clipping the rings on my boots together but once he was gone, the crowd around me grew. And now it included many women.

If I had imagined that the women would be less offensive than the men I was soon to learn better. They were even more fascinated by my hair and body. They seemed to find something different about the way my breasts were shaped, inspecting me closely and then looking at themselves, and each other. I was held and squeezed as they measured me against themselves. But the most humiliating, and painful experience was when they too started to inspect my pubic hair. At first they just stroked it, brushed it away from my body, tested the length of individual hairs. But their fascination developed into a desire to possess one of these different and distinctive hairs. A hair would be pulled out straight and if the woman was satisfied that it was sufficiently long she would pull it sharply, pulling it right out by the root. Once she had got her prize, another would take her place and I lost another hair. There was no break and soon there were three four or even five women struggling to acquire one of my hairs at the same time. My front was getting so tender. I couldn’t see the effects of their depredations, my harness held my head too high for me to see that part of my body, but I seemed to be getting short of hairs there. The women seemed to be having more and more difficulty in finding a hair to satisfy their desire to possess a part of me. If my legs hadn’t been so firmly fixed I might have tried to kick at them but I was helpless. My squirming away from them only seemed to help them to pull out my hairs so in the end I just stood passively and let them denude me. And of course, as the number of available hairs diminished, they moved the focus of their search closer and closer to my entrance. I knew that even as I pressed my legs and thighs together that such efforts would be useless once they made a determined attempt to breach my defences. By the time my driver and the visitor returned I felt red raw down there.

The women scattered as my driver came back. He too ran his hands over my now tenderised pudendum when he bent down to release my feet from their shackles. I felt my cart tipping back as luggage was piled on to the back. Then there was an incomprehensible conversation between my drive and the new arrival. I could neither see nor understand what was happening but in fact my driver was instructing the important visitor how to drive me, and therefore himself, back to the house.

I realised immediately that I was being driven by someone else. He used the whip more frequently and at times more heavily. He controlled me with his whip and heavy pulling on the reins. He wasn’t content to just drive me back to the house but took great delight in driving me through the centre of the town. He made me walk the entire length of the main street before turning me to make me trot back the way I had come. As I was paraded through the streets, more and more people seemed to gather to watch my humiliation. The crowd was pressing around us, calling out to my driver, all of them watching my every movement as I struggled to maintain any sort of pace through them. He waved his whip above their heads to keep them away and then landed a really painful lash across my rear as he urged me into a faster pace. By then I wanted only to get away and his instruction, through the whip and the reins, was almost welcome. I broke from the trot into my best pace, a pace I have been taught to maintain through my training. We came to the edge of the town and the following crowd fell back slowly as more and more of them returned to their tasks for the day. At last we had the road to ourselves and I was aware that we were on the road my driver had used to get us into the town. The whip ensured that I kept up my pace and I could hear the steady clip clop of my ‘hooves’ as I ran along the metaled road, the tyred wheels of my cart swishing behind me. I had only to run, to pull this cart. There was nothing to think about. Why should I think - I was just a horse, Well, a female horse, a mare. The only thing which distinguished me from a mare was the absence of a stallion!

I managed to run all the way back to the house. By the time we reached it I was very short of breath and was sweating profusely. My trainer, who had driven me into town in the first place was already there; he must have been driven back in some more conventional vehicle. I was unhitched and taken off to be rubbed down and cleaned up, in case the visitor should want another drive later. Cleaned up I was re-harnessed and had to stand and wait outside the house for the rest of the day.

Before I was taken into the town again my trainer took steps to save me from the pain and humiliation of having my pubic hairs pulled out one by one. I was harnessed between the shafts and had to stand while he lathered my pudendum and shaved me! The next time I had to wait outside the station he was equipped with a collection of little plastic bags, each containing one of those shaved off pubic hairs. While I waited - and was inspected again - he was selling the packets to my tormentors.

During my time as a pony I was not used sexually. Occasionally I was made to carry one of the visitors and one of the women who were fucked. Then I think I was there to provide the stimulus, to get the man sufficiently excited to ensure that he could manage to fuck the woman provided for that purpose. But there seemed to be some rule which meant that I was not to be fucked. Sometimes, as I stood between the shafts and heard the sounds of vigorous love-making, felt the cart rocking, I thought about Torben. I longed to feel his gentle hands again. And even as I longed I recognised the incongruity of my longing. I was a pony. Such thoughts were ridiculous. And before I had been a pony, a female pony, I had been a man. As a pony, being fucked by a man was bestial. And as a man, being fucked by another man was impossible! How perverted I had become. How sordid was my whole existence. It was impossible to comprehend and yet it was true. I could still remember having been a man when I concentrated. And I could certainly remember being used as a woman in that hotel in H******g. At night as I rested from the rigours of being driven around the estate or into town I could dream. And increasingly I found myself dreaming of Torben and his gentle loving. Then I longed to feel his touch again, to have his hands caressing my breasts, his lips on mine or on my nipples, his tongue probing as only he had ever done, even his male thing inside this female space which I now surrounded. Engrossed in such thoughts, I longed to touch myself, to hold my own breasts since Torben couldn’t, slip my own fingers into that space. But always, I was constrained. Not by any sense of impropriety or immodesty. But by the shackles and restraints which my masters imposed. My hands were useless inside those gauntlets - I couldn’t even manipulate some suitably shaped object to direct it to that spot. So I became ever more frustrated.

During this time I also had time to examine myself from the inside. My mind told me that I had been a man, had sorely and savagely abused a helpless woman, Linda. My punishment, which even I had to admit seemed entirely appropriate, ‘to fit the crime’ had forced me to accept the pain and shame of such abuse. And yet, during the abuse which I had suffered at the hands of men, I had shared the experience of being a woman. I could have no doubt - I was a woman. There was nothing male about me. Even when I was treated as a pony, it was as a female pony. My body was exposed at all times, the body of a woman. So when I thought of Torben, I realised that I was thinking of him as I would if I truly were a woman. But if I was a woman, why couldn’t I remember having been a girl? Why could I remember only having been a boy and a man? How was it possible to be both a man and a woman at the same time? Had there been some interchange of memory and sexuality? Surely I could only feel this way about Torben if I really were the woman I appeared to be? Because I came to recognise these feelings for Torben as love.

At last that period of being so abused was ended. As far as I could understand there was nothing that I had done which brought about that change. I can only guess that the owners had found some other woman to take my place - perhaps driving me had become too easy and they needed some more spirited victim to subjugate. Or had there been some man who needed to be subjected to this treatment? I’ll never know. But I was transported across the country and set up in another hotel like the one in H******g. Conditions were a little easier there. I was fucked regularly, of course, given almost every night to a man as his plaything. There were only a few of us in the hotel and so we all had to take turns as the high class whore, the subjugated slave, the bound victim and the dominant mistress. But there was a little more freedom and I was still determined to get some message about my situation out of C****. I started writing notes on scraps of toilet paper and hiding them in places where they might be found later - in waste baskets, the sides of armchairs, under carpets, anywhere. Most of them were found and I would be punished, condemned to serve as the bound victim for a week or as the woman to be caned or whipped. And then suddenly I was whisked away from the hotel and moved to a private house.

I didn’t understand it but my situation improved dramatically. Now I was allowed a great deal of freedom - and I wasn’t fucked! I had my own room, my own clothes, my own make-up. I was able to spend time learning to be a real woman, discovering for myself how to manage long blonde hair, how to keep my complexion smooth, how to choose appropriate clothes, how to present the most feminine image with make-up and clothing.

 

***

 

It had taken us so long. But even in a country as big as C**** secrets cannot be hidden for ever - especially secrets like hers. We had scoured the country seeking out information, looking for the unusual, the untoward. And there is little which fits more completely into those categories than a woman being treated like a pony, being forced to draw privileged men around public streets harnessed to a cart. A western woman! At first it seemed that our enquiries had done what they had before - triggered her captors into moving her on. But this time we were closer in time to the move and it was easier to get the information we needed. I identified the hotel where she was being kept - brothel would be a better description but I wouldn’t tell Torben that. Some of the women had entered it willingly as a way of life and were less inhibited about talking to me. Perhaps as a woman myself I gave them some sort of reassurance so that they were prepared to share confidences. But we did find her. Then it was just a matter of money. The price was exorbitant, at least for the sort of woman she now was, but Torben was determined to save her. I tried to prepare him, tried to make him understand that he wouldn’t be able to guarantee that she had any feelings for him, would show any gratitude for being given freedom. She might feel obligated and owned - a state which would govern her behaviour towards him. He wanted her because of his feelings for her, feelings which might be shared but we had no means of knowing. He had to accept that she might just accept her freedom to walk away from him as he was paying to allow her to walk away from them. And, of course, at that time I had no way of knowing the truth about her situation.

They made us wait as well as pay. But eventually the message came - I could collect her from the entrance lobby of the Hilton Hotel in Sh****** between 3:00 and 3:05 pm on June 17th, If I was as much as a minute early or late, the deal was off. She would be alone but watched. I must also be alone.

The waiting was worse for Torben than for me. After all, I just had the chance to complete a story, to perhaps make a bit of money from it or at least defray some of my costs and to assuage my conscience for that initial purchase. But he had invested so much money and emotion on this quest. It had been so hard for him to come to terms with his feelings when he had first found himself falling for her, his guilt about his dead wife and son, the feelings of betrayal. Then, as he had mastered those emotions, there was the great feeling of loss as his actions had prompted them to spirit her away. There was the anguish that his actions had led to her subjugation as a human pony and then, most difficult of all, the thought that his feelings might not be reciprocated. After all, she was only a whore, had perhaps just given her body to him as she might have given it to all her other clients. How could he know if her expressions of feeling were true or false? And by buying her freedom he had no guarantee of her gratitude. But he did go through with it, did make the financial arrangements they demanded and did come with me to collect her, although he kept well out of the way for the actual collection. And surprisingly they too kept precisely to their side of the bargain. She was properly dressed for the situation, although she had no luggage. She had been told so little, just where to sit and that she would be collected within ten minutes.

 

***

 

I don’t know how I feel. It was so good to see Torben again, to feel his strong arms around me - and later his prick inside me. I felt so like a woman as he lay beside me, his hands roaming tenderly over my body, his touch on my breasts so arousing, so exciting. I felt myself melting again, felt the nipples harden until they stood out from my tits like glass marbles. And then, as he continued to fondle them, felt that surge of passion going down, down deep into the pit of my stomach. I felt myself getting damper and damper as his stimulation provoked the flow of those internal secretions which would lubricate me, make me ready to receive him with pleasure rather than pain. The excitement mounted as he kissed my entire body, his lips moving like butterflies across my face and down over my breasts, down to that sescret place which he knew so well. I was kissing him too and longing for him to begin. My legs were spread so wide, wider perhaps even than when they had been bound. Now I felt just as bound, but bound by the bonds of my own passion. I touched him, indicated that I was ready and he rewarded me by gently pressing himself into me. His fingers continued to caress me, to excite me and his wonderful prick moved inside me at exactly the right pace to provoke me. And then we were less inhibited, our movements getting wilder, his pressure increasing untl he was embedded deeply inside me, his fingers teasing that spot just inside and his prick stimulating some place deep inside which only he had ever made me aware of. The passion grabbed both of us and there were noises, noises of love, music to our ears as each was forced to reveal the strength of this passion to the other. Then came the wetness, a flood, such a flood that I knew that it could not all have come from him. And then the warmth of his continued embrace as he held me to him, consoled me for what he took to be tears but which represented sublime joy. During that ecstatic coupling I knew that I was entirely woman.

But I have to think, to decide. And while I am close to him it is so hard. As a woman I want him, want to be with him, want to be his. And yet I know that I am not a woman, that the woman I am has a past which is closed to me. The past I have I cannot share with him and the more recent past I do not want to share with anyone. So Sarah is the only one I have told. She knows the whole story now, although she had clearly found out quite a lot of it before I told her anything. If I stay with him I shall have to be a woman for him. But what if some equally mysterious reversal of this transformation happens when my sentence is up? Am I limited to a life of only six years in this body? How would he feel if he knew the truth? He behaves towards me as if he felt genuine love for me - at least as far as I can know how a man in love might behave. I know that while I am Sheila I love him. While we are apart I am bereft, incomplete. In many ways I am just a cipher, a hole awaiting fulfilment, a woman needing a man’s prick to plug me and make me whole. But there is such fear. And such guilt. I have no right to happiness after what I did to Linda, no right to have been rescued from that wholly deserved ‘punishment to fit the crime’. And yet the severity of that punishment, even that shortened period was surely enough. And there is more guilt. What of the woman who inhabited this body before me? Is she alive or dead? Where is Martin’s body? Sarah has agreed that she will try to find out some of the answers if I really need them. But most of all I need to know what I really WANT to do.