Welcome back to The River; if you are new here, you can catch up on everything that’s happened to our heroine, Caroline Fontaine, thus far by clicking on this link:
The River | The Complete Story Index
At the secluded Kingfisher Estate, Caroline Fontaine begins her new life not as a guest, but as property. Once a respected socialite, she is now a possession owned by Ethan Kingfisher, a man who seduced her with promises of devotion but delivered only submission. Trained by the cold and calculating Anastasia, and claimed nightly by the enigmatic Ms. Ben…
The days became a rhythm, the race a purpose.
And suddenly Caroline had a focus, something she couldn’t remember having in years, not since Casey was a child and still in need of a routine that moved her from bed to breakfast to school, then from school to play to dinner, homework and then bed. Her teens had come with a breakdown in the routine and fresh sets of chaos, frazzling a woman who struggled to focus, whose husband’s life was the ebb and flow of frequent travel. Even holidays had appeared and disappeared as if calendars had yet to be invented.
But now, everything flowed according to a strict schedule, and in a simple, unexpected way, it brought Caroline peace.
Mornings began with the clink of her collar’s brass ring against tile, breakfast on her knees with the other ponies. Faces in bowls, bare asses in a row, up and presentable, the familiar ache gnawing at her needy cunt. They lapped water from the trough, had their fill -- Caroline along with six other women, all of them younger. She was afraid to look too closely, to admit they were more Casey’s age -- that any of the young women being fitted with leather and a bit could be her own daughter. The scent of leather and oil warmed in the sun as Anastasia’s girls prepared for the track. Caroline’s muscles ached with each sunrise, the ache settling into her bones like an old friend.
She watched the other girls, some of them well-versed in the practices she was just learning, and for a moment, she felt like a mother again.
The bit slid into her mouth before she was fully aware, and the harness straps followed—tight against her shoulders, her ribs, between her legs. She no longer flinched when Anastasia’s fingers brushed her cunt while securing the final strap. Or when she circled Caroline’s clit with an oiled finger, leaving her panting and stamping in her pony boots. Her nipples tightened automatically in anticipation of the clamps, which bit as harshly each day as the next, and yet, even this she’d begun to acclimate to -- the routine. The need, the preparation, the motion, the pain and aches. And then the breathless running, her body lashed to the cart.
“Gait,” Anastasia barked, each morning the same. “Gait ensures we move efficiently.” She walked from left to right, checking Caroline’s gear, testing each strap, even testing the nipple clamps, making the raven-haired pony wince and whine. “The more we run, the more efficiently we learn to move. This is why we practice.” She stopped, her fingers tracing the curve of Caroline’s left breast. “Normally we don’t approve of ponies with breasts this large. It’s inefficient. But it seems your owner wants to see you run, and while I will not let your inefficient form lose us this race, I can see why he’s eager to see you.”
She smiled then, something that Caroline hadn’t seen from the strict woman, the woman who walked the grounds in her tight riding pants and boots, a simple tunic or vest, her hair always severely pulled into a bun or ponytail. As far as Caroline was concerned, Anastasia was above emotion and unable to express anything other than disdain or total disregard.
And for a moment, Anastasia’s hand squeezing Caroline’s left breast, as if taking in the fine curve and weight, Caroline pictured herself kneeling and pressing her tongue between her trainer’s lips. She felt the familiar ache, the one reserved now for Ms. Benedict, but for once, all she wanted to do now was endure and please, and perhaps a different reward would come her way.
“We will continue to work on gait, Caroline,” said the dark-haired taskmaster, her eyes up and locked on those of her charge, “ but we need to focus on posture, as well. Posture is about presentation, and you must show your best when you work hardest. This tack will not be what you race in, but it’s similar. We’ll change over to the race tack soon enough, and you will feel the difference, how much more strict it is. Especially,” she said, that smile returning to her mouth and reaching almost to her eyes, “the strap that will run between the lips of your dripping cunt.”
Caroline shuddered, reading the change in Anastasia’s eyes -- from a glimmer of softness to a hard smile that belied the cruelty Caroline had come to expect.
“And finally, pace.” Anastasia stepped back, looking her charge up and down, her left hand fingering the halter whip she’d introduced Caroline to days ago. “We will continue working on pace, and next week, you will be competing with your peers, the pretty little ponies you’ve supped with this week.” She winked. “If you cannot beat them, you will never come close to winning the derby. And Caroline, you’ve yet to see what I can do with this.”
The cruelty was back, the threats laying in the air between the two women, pony and trainer, and Caroline felt the rush between her legs, the flush in her cheeks.
The whip cracked. The cart shifted behind her. Caroline pulled, trotted, cantered. Sunlight carved sweat lines down her sides as her thighs burned and her breasts bounced. The biting tug on her nipples controlled her path, each sharp sting forcing her to left or right. The pain and humiliation blurred into a single, familiar hum of existence, a routine that Caroline could settle into, regardless of the circumstances.
No orgasm. Not in weeks. Each day, the leather against her clit teased and tormented, never enough to push her over, never enough to let her forget her hunger.
But this was her life now, and it hadn’t felt this complete in years.
Afternoons bled into dusk.
The other pony girls became silent shadows beside her on the track, each trapped in her own rhythm. Caroline didn’t know their names. Didn’t ask. They didn’t speak. She knew better. But she watched them when she wasn’t running. Their bodies slick with sweat at the end of the day, each of them crowding under the mister after all the tack was removed. Skin on skin, but hands folded behind their backs. Breasts on breasts, tired but muscled legs pressing against others, and eyes searching for words mouths couldn’t speak. They turned and twisted, letting the cool spray play over their faces and backs, tamping barefoot on the cool concrete after a long day in heavy leather boots.
Sometimes Ethan watched from a nearby gazebo, surrounded by men in pressed suits and women in thin silks. Caroline had found him there one afternoon and looked for him each day thereafter. Sometimes he’d gestured toward her, a flick of the wrist as if testing a horse for sale. Or perhaps he was just gesturing toward his stable, his harem, his ponies.
But he never called to her. Never touched her. Still.
She saw him smile at the youngest of the new girls once, leaning down to speak softly in her ear as a stable boy led Anastasia into the barm. The girl’s eyes widened, shimmering with tears of hope. Caroline turned away and her eyes found the safety of the stable floor instead.
Evenings belonged to Ms. Benedict.
Caroline crawled to her rooms each night, hair still damp from the stable baths, her skin oiled and gleaming, her limbs shaking from exhaustion.
Sometimes Ms. Benedict greeted her with a sigh of indulgent annoyance, pulling her across her lap to administer a spanking and tease her slick cunt. Sometimes with cool silence, simply reaching down to snap a leash to Caroline’s collar and guiding her under the desk while she typed emails late into the night.
And sometimes, when training ran late, she met Caroline with a quiet, predatory smile and pulled her prize between her thighs, ordered her mouth open, and held her head still until she came softly, fingers tangling in Caroline’s hair with a sigh of pleasure. Then, she left Caroline to curl into her blanket and fall fast asleep.
She slept the sleep of the dead, not a single complaint when the nights ran short, and she slipped into her blankets, the familiar ache between her legs. Deep. Heavy. Dreamless sleep came to her on those nights. But on other nights, dreams began to flicker in the darkness. Dreams of reins tugging her forward, of bit gags parting her lips, of Anastaia’s voice in her ear — good girl, pull harder, knees high. Dreams of Ms. Benedict’s fingers on her tongue, pressing into her throat, praising her for her silence. Dreams of the other girls running beside her in the bright morning sun, sweat dripping from their bodies like rain from statues. Dreams of her kneeling and licking each of them to orgasm, their salty cunts pressed against her mouth every time she lost a race.
And under it all, always, was the ache of her cunt, swollen and throbbing with need. Sometimes she woke gasping, her hips grinding into the floor, her breath ragged with the edges of a pleasure denied. Sometimes she woke, her face wet with tears, eyes blinking through tears at Anastasia waiting.
The days passed in a whirlwind, Caroline’s world bleeding together, indistinguishable and rhythmic. Nothing existed beyond the curve of the track, the pull of the reins and the simple obedience that felt more like a choice, more like dedication. She changed as she ran, and the more she ran, the faster she felt at ease with her station. When she glimpsed a mirror, she saw less of the mother and housewife she’d been, more of the pony for the Kingfisher Estate she was now.
And nothing about that bothered her.
Her thighs thickened with muscle. Her waist hollowed. Her breathing grew stronger. Her steps lengthened while her form resolved into elegance. Anastasia no longer barked orders—only corrected minor faults with a flick of her whip or a twist of the nipple clamps.
The clamps themselves, like the ache between her legs, no longer needed to be tolerated. Instead of dreading it, she welcomed the bite of the metal and the tight strap through the lips of her cunt.
The dress shop was nearly complete, she knew. And the race was only days away. Very soon the dream she was dreaming would become the dream she’d always dreamed.
Author’s Notes: Welcome back to The River. It’s been a minute since Caroline Fontaine graced our pages, but she’s back, and the story continues every Friday!
Caroline is prepping for the big race, which will come through in the next episode, and then we will begin moving into Act II of the story as the scenery changes and the story evolves with new twists, new characters and a new location, the magnificent French Quarter!
I’m so glad she’s back 😈