Caroline woke at the foot of Ms. Benedict’s bed, curled like a loyal hound, the soft wool warm beneath her cheek and the faint scent of wine and sex lingering in her breath. Morning light bled around the edges of the blackout curtains. But she was alone. Again.
No touch. No whispered praise or cruel tease. Just the silence and the dull ache between her legs where need had made its bed. And yet, it felt right, as if it was something she’d always been seeking.
At some point during the night, she must have crawled down here from her own corner—or been led, or told to stay. She couldn’t remember. But there was no sign of Ms. Benedict. Only a single glass of water on the nightstand, left for her.
Caroline pulled it to her lips, her eyes lingering on the handwritten note underneath. Drink, slave.
She swallowed, took a deep breath, remembering the way the blonde looked at her. Was she all of twenty-five? Barely older than her own daughter, but the way she took charge — slow and quiet, control in her voice and gaze that made Caroline’s knees weak. Luckily, she spent all her time there, crawling after the woman whose words seemed to speak directly to her clit, even if her fingers only teased. Kneeling, her mouth open, tongue probing the tight pink core of the other woman, devouring her with every breath.
A memory tugged, and she could see the blonde lie back into the thick pile of pillows, sinking under a wave of black silk, her glasses still on her nose when her eyes closed. Caroline had looked down, feeling the ache between her own legs, the taste of the beauty’s orgasms on her lips. And then, no one watching her, no one to direct or control her, she leaned in, lifted Ms. Benedict’s glasses from her face, folded them carefully and set them on the sideboard.
Then, she climbed down from the bed and curled into a ball on the discarded blanket. Squeezing her legs together, she took a long, deep breath and fell fast asleep.
A servant knocked. Caroline blinked, turned, the glass empty in her hands. The door opened without waiting for a reply, and Anastasia entered—perfect as ever in a tailored riding jacket, hair up in a tight bun, her crop already in hand.
“Training today,” she said simply. “Up.”
Caroline rose, stiff and slow, the heat from last night replaced by a creeping anxiety and stiffness. Anastasia did not wait. She turned and walked out, expecting obedience without command.
And Caroline followed.
The stables were set far behind the house, past the manicured hedges and iron fountain, beyond the gardens where roses bloomed in waves of crimson and lemon. Caroline remembered the walk — quiet save for the birds and the jangle of harnesses in the breeze. What she didn’t remember were the other girls—ponies, already broken in—moving like clockwork between narrow lanes and fenced pastures. Some pulled carts. Others trotted to tasks unknown. None looked up, seeing the newest pony walking toward her fate, and Caroline silently thanked them, feeling the heat of the day on her skin, the heat of her internal struggle, then heat on her face as she walked among the dozen or so naked women — just another slave.
Was this what Ms. Benedict had been talking about? Caroline’s eyes were firmly planted on Anastasia’s boots, as directed, but she couldn’t not see the other girls, so many of them young and pretty, like flower petals someone had plucked and pressed into a novel they’d authored. A book Ethan had written.
She could hear Ms. Benedict’s voice in her head again: “They all think they’re going to live in a palace, and their desperate little pussies are dripping, eager to be the whore for a man who would drape them in luxury and safety. If only they will live at the end of his leash.”
Were these those girls? Was she herself one? Another woman in trouble bought and sold by their own hand, eyes full of luxury living and travel, servants and only the cock of a young, gorgeous kingpin to worship? Where else could they have come from? And how old were they? So young. Almost children…like Casey.
Caroline shuddered thinking of the college girls giving themselves to Ethan with dreams of having found the perfect man in their eyes. Then, finding he was only a purchasing agent, not sampling the merchandise, not the Prince Charming — still, ever so charming nonetheless — they’d promised themselves. What would Casey say? Would she know any of these women?
Before Caroline could go down that road, Anastasia led her into the main stables and to a grooming bench. No need to make her undress. Caroline had awakened naked, but that wasn’t going to last. Someone had laid out leather straps beside a brushed metal cart with polished wheels. A harness. A bit. Reins. Things Caroline had seen on television or movies, and just now in the yard, but never used in a way that she was imagining them used now on her own body.
Even seeing the young women as ponies in the yard just now felt surreal, like some kind of dream. Surely women didn’t wear such things. Yet surely they did.
“This isn’t for show,” Anastasia said. “The derby is in three weeks. You will be trained to pull a one-person cart at speed — this cart —,” she pointed, “and look perfect doing it. You’ll learn gait. Obedience. Endurance. And you’ll do it without complaint. And you will train to win. To win, slave. There is no second place for you.”
Caroline opened her mouth, then thought better of it. She stood silently, her eyes playing across the lines of the sleek vehicle, the long poles, the small seat. Would Anastasia sit in that? Would she pull her in that? And yet she’d seen at least a couple of women doing just that, their arms strapped in place behind them, breasts bouncing.
The air was cool against her bare skin, but the heat within was already building as she looked at the array of leather straps and the other…items, things she recognized already on the ponies in the yard.
“Good,” Anastasia said. “I see you’re imagining yourself in full regalia. It will be slightly different on the day of the race — more ornamental. For now, this will do. Now kneel.”
Caroline obeyed without question. This was her choice, her life, and she would live it as Ethan — and Anastasia — commanded. The thoughts of her daughter, the other young women moving about the stables under the direction of others — those she pushed to the back of her mind. Today was about today. Now was about now. One day at a time, until the year was ended and she could have her own life again.
She blinked at the thought. It was the first time she’d stepped back and assessed, truly seen what was happening. One day at a time. All things pass. A year from now, everything would be different for her…and for Casey. And this place, and all of its decadence, would be behind her.
Caroline swallowed, resigned. She took a deep breath and let come what may as three men in khaki breeches surrounded her, their upper bodies bare, muscled, and already slick from the humidity of the morning.
The first harness went over her shoulders, fitted tight against her collarbone. Then came the straps—around her ribs, her upper arms and wrists, pulling them in tight and securing them. She wouldn't be holding the cart, she realized. But the how didn't matter as Anastasia's warm fingers worked across her naked flesh, binding her. Binding her into the creature that could run naked in a race, just as she'd raced through the glen to an orgasm the day before.
Ordered to stand again, Caroline gasped when Anastasia slid the final leather strap between her legs, pulling it snug between the lips of her pussy and against her swollen nub. She shifted, feeling it grinding against her clit, and her face went flush, but Anastasia only smirked.
“You’ll learn to work through arousal,” she said. “Or you’ll never last the course.” She waited a beat, then leaned in close. “If you cum, you will stumble, and what I can do with my crop to get you back on track will be the least of your worries.”
The bit was last. Soft leather at the edges, metal across the tongue. Caroline hesitated, staring at it. It was the final piece before she became one of them — the many glistening bodies moving across the lawn outside. But when the crop struck the inside of her thigh—a single, sharp command, she opened, accepting it.
She took it — the bit — and tongued it as Anastasia buckled it into place. Then Anastasia’s hands on her shoulders turned her, and she found the flushed cheeks and darting eyes of a human pony.
The rest of the morning was motion and blur, sweat and ache. Caroline pulled, stepped, turned, trotted. Her legs burned. Her mouth dried. The bit turned her breathing into low panting, and every jostle of the harness sent tremors through her cunt. Anastasia barked orders, corrected her posture, snapped the reins when she faltered.
“Head high.”
“Faster.”
“You’ll embarrass him at this rate.”
When Caroline stumbled, the cart tilted slightly, and Anastasia caught it with a hiss. “Do that in the derby, and I’ll make sure you’re pulling shit carts for the staff instead.”
But Caroline found herself adapting. Pacing. Sweating. Leaning into it. Her thighs ached. Her calves burned. And her nipples…
After Anastasia positioned Caroline in front of the cart, she buckled the stems to Caroline’s waist harness, then attached the reins. The slender leather ran through rings at Caroline’s neck and down to her nipples, where metal clamps captured her aching nubs. With each cruel tug, each command barked, Anastasia pulled on Caroline’s nipples, leaving her grimacing in pain and rushing in a new direction.
There was no way to stop it, to end it, to avoid it. She ran in broad arching circles left and right, the constant tug of one clamped nipple over another, the pain shooting through her core to her clit grinding against the soft leather. The sun beat down as she ran, sweat dripping into her eyes, drooling dripping from her chin. Her breasts bounced and swung as she ran, her knees high lest the crack from Anastasia’s whip crack against her thighs.
It wasn’t long before she stopped sensing the world around her, seeing the path before her, even understanding the directions she was supposed to run. She simply responded. An animal driven by stimulus, and the ever-present ache in her cunt.
By late afternoon, Caroline found herself tethered to the post near the water trough, barely upright, trembling, eyes closed against the sun. Her skin flushed bronze, and she could feel the kiss of a long summer day. Her chest heaved, her breaths coming in long gulps of air. The bit had been removed, but the feel of it lingered — the way her mouth felt stretched open and unable to properly close. And the leather between her legs had worn against her clit until she grimaced with every step. She’d almost cum several times, but over the course of the day, round and round the track and going through the paces with Anastasia, the leather had become a driver itself of her performance. The sooner she was rid of the thing burning against her clit, the better. All she had to do was obey. And the longer she ran, the farther, the faster, the less she understood anything about the world around her and the more she understood her place in it — she was a slave. A toy. A pony. A piece of property owned by the Kingfisher estate.
“You’ve done worse.” The voice was calm. Icy. Beautiful.
Caroline recognized the voice immediately and the thrill that went with it. Her eyes opened, and Ms. Benedict stood a few feet away, parasol in hand, lips red as garnet and curved into that same crooked smirk. She wore white today—silk slacks, a corset-tight blouse, chesnut brown riding boots—and looked more like the mistress of the estate than Ethan ever had. She stood a few steps away, casually sipping on a straw, drink in hand. She smiled when Caroline looked up
“You saw?” Caroline whispered, her voice hoarse, barely there.
“I always do,” Ms. Benedict said. “When something belongs to me, I keep track of its performance.”
Caroline’s lips parted, but she didn’t know what to say.
Ms. Benedict stepped closer, one gloved hand reaching to cup Caroline’s cheek. Her touch was light. Appraising. She looked the older woman over, then found her eyes again and slipped the straw of her drink between Caroline’s lips. The older woman sipped, letting the cool, crisp, tart flavors of the gin and tonic fill her mouth.
“You’re exhausted. You stink of sweat. And yet—” She trailed her fingers down Caroline’s chest, traced the leather strap down down down to the reddened skin beneath, the swollen nub. “—you look absolutely fuckable.”
Caroline’s breath caught in her throat. She licked her lips, her eyes on the straw, then on the woman who loomed over her like an owner.
“But I won’t,” Ms. Benedict said, and stepped back. “Not tonight. Tonight you’ll crawl to my bed, lick my boots clean, and sleep on the floor.”
Caroline’s clit twitched. She opened her mouth to speak, thought better of it, then accepted the straw again.
Ms. Benedict smiled. “Yes. You did well. I saw it. I heard it from Anastasia’s lips as she walked away to shower, leaving you here to sweat and ache and wait for a stableboy to strip and wash and oil your sun-kissed skin.” She trailed a finger along Caroline’s arm and felt the goosebumps rise. “But I don’t reward good girls, Caroline. I keep them aching. Are you aching?”
Caroline shuddered, then nodded. “Yes, Mistress.”
“Good girl,” said Ms. Benedict, then she straightened up and gestured to someone in the stables. “Boy, was this pony and have her delivered to my room.” There was a moment of silence, Caroline’s eyes lingering on the gorgeous blonde in front of her, who turned back to her prize a moment later. “And Caroline. I seem to have gotten my boots all dusty,” she said, a faux pout adorning her beautiful face. “You can take care of that can’t you?”
Caroline stared, then nodded. This was who she was; could she deny it?
“Show me, Caroline. Show me how you clean the boots of your owners.”
The brunette hesitated, her memories fluttering over the glen where she’d knelt and bathed the boots of each of the riders in the saliva from her own tongue before taking Anastasia’s crop on her clit. She blinked, registering the blonde again, then pushed her tongue out between her open lips.
“Yes, exactly like that, dahling,” she said, a smile stealing across her face, and she turned and tramped away, the dust rising around her boots as she crossed the yard.
Author’s Notes: We’re almost into Act II now. A few more episodes as Caroline learns the lay of the land, where place in the house and who the players are. But soon, she will be in the French Quarter, her dress shop open, and dangers lurking everywhere. You may have thought this was an erotic romance. It is not. There’s so much more to this story, only Caroline herself doesn’t know it yet.
I’m loving it 😈