Pony Girls

Story from Roué 11

IN THE PADDOCK

Waiting for the race numbers to go up — Who’s my driver… who’ll be caning my bum…?

The excitement is always there, every time the Pony Club meet at Mrs Finch’s place down in the country. Cars splash down the muddy lane, turn through the gate. Cars with smart-looking women at the wheel and younger, prettier passengers. Estate cars, Range Rovers, even a horse-box. They bump along the track, down by the copse, and hide themselves away at the back of the big barn, out of sight of anyone who might drive along the top road from the village. There is a carnival atmosphere as the cars’ occupants avoid the puddles and slip in through the little side door. Women calling greetings, some of them less lady-like than might be expected, only the girls a little quieter. Smiling at each other but treating the older women with what might be respect.

Alongside the barn there is, surprisingly, a comfortably furnished room, with a bar. Drinks are sent round, conversation mingles with the sound of laughter. Mrs Finch is prominent amongst the crowd of well-dressed women, her voice carrying to all corners of the room as something makes her guffaw in amusement. More drinks are passed round, the noise of animated chatter maintains itself at a constant level:

“She won’t have a chance against my girl —”

“Have you seen Rosemary? I heard —”

“— very pretty. I like those little shorts she’s got her wearing —”

“Nice little bum, that. Wouldn’t mind —”

“— course. Give her a couple of flicks across her rump and she’s away.”

The girls are grouped a little away from the older women. Most are drinking soft drinks. The conversation here is less ebullient:

“— hope not. I’d hate to be given to her! She’s a terror with —”

“Can’t say I’m too happy about it. The 200 yards is enough — wouldn’t fancy my chances —”

“— whipped my bum to a frazzle. That was last —”

Watches are inspected, drinks downed. There is a general movement towards the far end of the room, where there are two doors, ‘Tack Room’ and ‘Member Changing Room’. The girls file into the tack room, the women through the other door.

In the Members’ Room the conversation continues unabated — in the Tack Room there is less chatter. The girls there are preparing for the exertions which will shortly be required of them. Well-filled jeans are rustled down young thighs, chubby bottoms bounce under saucy panties, Marks and Sparks knickers, even a pair of white cotton school pants. Jumpers, bras, shoes, tights, skirts — all are hung up on the hooks which run down the length of the room on one side. A particularly plump young bum exhibits unmistakeable signs of recent punishment — a dozen neatly inscribed cane weals snuggled tightly up under the full underside of the girl’s buttocks.

Harnesses are taken down, knickers are slipped off; one or two girls pull on tight satin shorts, cut away at the back to leave the roundness of their bottoms nicely bare. Leather straps are buckled round waists, other straps are passed between smooth, strong thighs and up between firm bum-cheeks, pulled tight, fitted as comfortably as may be under girls crotches. Clips are snapped, little lightweight chains are fastened, plimsolls and training shoes are put on, along with neat white ankle socks. Breasts bounce and nipples peek nervously this way and that as girls stoop to tie laces, scoop up dropped knickers, adjust each other’s straps.

The ladies from the Member’s Room are ready first, in the main. They go out in groups into the barn proper. It is a high building, with corrugated plastic roofing letting plenty of light in. It isn’t particularly warm, especially for the women wearing shorts, which seem about as popular as are jodhpurs. There are four shiny, chromium-plated little vehicles lined up in the middle of the available space, with bicycle wheels and shafts and seats with raked backs.

The barn is some hundred and forty feet long. Marked with white-painted stones, and avoiding the internal roof supports, an oval track is laid out. There is a start line and several finish lines. At one end of the oval there is a sizeable puddle where rain has leaked through the roof.

The Members walk in little groups around the track, discussing technicalities, some of them smacking whippy-looking, leather-handled canes against their thighs, though none of the thigh-smackers are wearing shorts. The sharp splat of these canes sounds flatly in the empty barn.

Some of the girls — now referred to as ‘ponies’ — emerge from the Tack Room. They are ushered into a little enclosure, grandly called the ‘Paddock’, by a woman wearing full riding kit, hard hat as well. More girls, festooned with harness straps, issue from the Tack Room, tits bobbing as they are chivvied along by the Paddock Marshal. A sharp Crack!, a squeal from one of the girls, an ironic cheer from several ladies, a cane-wealed bottom clutched by a pretty, long-legged blonde ‘pony’. “No rubbing — no bum rubbing!” insists the Marshall, a cry echoed here and there and drawing a few scattered laughs. The Paddock fills with round, caneable young bottoms, mostly naked, the plumpness of all enhanced by the buttock-dividing crotch straps running up to waist belts.

The Members go into a huddle alongside an elevated platform. In due course a board marked with a list of planned races is chalked with the names of Members and the numbers of ponies. Several of the girls are heard to complain at their luck.

Wagers are laid, the Starter acting as holder of bets, then the ladies disperse in various directions. Several ponies are led from the enclosure, harnesses are adjusted, especially crotch straps, and a girl whines miserably as her straps are tightened another inch all round. A pony is trotted up and down by her driver, bottom wobbling, tits oscillating as she is gee’ed along.

A whistle blows. The first four girls are taken to the little traps. Their waist-straps are fastened to the carts, not in order to keep the girls in position, but to enable them to pull the traps without having to hold the shafts. The drivers mount the little seats, smacking their canes across bare girl-flesh as they edge their ponies into line for the start.

This race is the first heat. There will be five more heats, some with three and some with four teams. The first two in each heat will go through to the next eliminating races, of which there will be four, three teams in each race. The winners alone will go through to the final. Girls who get their traps and drivers into winning positions will have to run again. Running again means there will be more whipping of bottoms. More exertion, more caning — and for the winners, more running to come. More whipping, more pain — hence the necessity for an ‘incentive’ not to give way to the temptation to lose, and thus avoid having to run again. Girls who fail to get up into winning positions will go across the ‘Bench’. There is no way that any of todays ‘ponies’ are going to go home without their bottoms well-whipped.

The four teams are in line. Mrs Wilde has drawn Jenny, Mrs Holden’s little blonde librarian, a nice round bottom, good athletic thighs. But Mrs Wilde is no lightweight. The betting says that Jenny will be going across the Bench. Jenny knows it too — but she’s still going to try. Better the swift, enervating crack of Mrs Wilde’s driving cane in another race than the slow, rhythmic punishment of the Paddock Marshal’s ‘bum-tickler’.

Mrs Evans has got Sandra’s fat bottom in front of her, already twitching with the sting of the couple of liveners she’s had before the start.

Amanda’s saucy backside is just asking for Miss Forbes’s cane. Amanda is Mrs Finch’s au pair — or at least that’s how Mrs Finch describes her.

Lesley’s bottom, firm and cane-tempting, will be jiggling in a moment or two when Miss Bowles gets swishing — as she undoubtedly will. Lesley is the girl from the baker’s shop. No one is at all sure how Mrs Browne got her into this, but they don’t want to pry too much.

The whistle blows again. Canes crack wickedly, bums jerk and swerve. The four girls lurch forward, canes already raised for another swipe, menacing the helpless bottoms of the straining ponies. The whacking, smacking flurry of cane strokes echoes from the roof. A girl squeals, stumbles, recovers, yelps again as her bum squirms under yet another stroke.

The girls are whipped into a run, then they are most of the way down the first straight, starting to cut across for the corner. Wheels clatter together, breasts swing and bounce, eyes widen, nostrils dilate, swaying buttocks catch their last taste of the cane before the drivers are leaning into the turn, too busy holding on to whip their ponies into a faster gait.

Miss Forbes, with Amanda, is first round the bend. Jenny is struggling bravely in their tracks. Mrs Wilde’s cane is the first into action, making her girl gasp with three, four meaty whacks. The sound of wheels on the sawdust and plimsolls pounding and scrambling is caught up in the renewed sounds of bare bums catching quick, frenzied strokes as the teams come helter-skelter along the second straight.

In a line, with Lesley and Miss Bowles trailing already, the four traps swoosh past the platform where the onlookers are shouting encouragement. Four bottoms — one, two, three, four, present their full, cane-reddened buttocks to the gaze of the watching Members. As the first bend is rounded for the second time the mud-splashed girls are panting and gasping. Jenny, straining for all she is worth, is sobbing with every breath. Another straight, a bend, the last straight still to go……………….

Mrs Wilde is whipping Jenny unmercifully now, and Jenny is swerving her caned bottom from side to side even on the run. Sandra is pounding up alongside, while Miss Forbes is slicing her cane rhythmically across Amanda’s flaming bottom. The girl is shaking her head, hair flying back from her face. Weeping through her panting breaths Amanda drags her trap across the finish line. Mrs Evans drives Sandra to a narrow win over Mrs Wilde’s exhausted Jenny. Lesley, the baker’s assistant, is caned all the way to the finish line by her disappointed passenger, tits bobbing with every step.

The traps, and the girls, finish up against the end wall of the building. Tears are much in evidence, particularly from Amanda and young Jenny. “No bum rubbing!” Jenny rubs anyway, and sobs loudly. She gets another stroke of the cane, and is headed back to the Paddock, tears streaming down her cheeks.

The girls are taken out of the traps. Amanda and Sandra are left in harness, but the unlucky girls who came in third and fourth are unstrapped and prodded out of the Paddock. The Starter is paying out bets, and the Members are already clamouring to bet on the next event — Jenny’s and Lesley’s caning. Twelve strokes, but good and hard. Bum uppermost across the Bench, hands on heads, knees and feet together. No wriggling permitted, or an extra three for the cheek of disobeying Standing Instructions, across the tops of the thighs, administered before the caning proper is proceeded with. Which of them will earn her three extra first?

The next heat is being prepared for. Members not involved in the forthcoming race cluster round the Bench, a waist-high bar supported at either end by posts, over which the two girls will be put, one bottom one side, the other bum the other way round. Jenny and Lesley are made to bend tightly over the bar, whipped bottoms offered up to the Marshall’s cane. The cane swooshes experimentally. A murmur runs through the spectators. Thwack! Jenny’s bum jerks. She squeals — but keeps her scorched bottom still. Sandra next, a nice solid whack. Jenny again. Full across the width of both cheeks. A gasp, a thrust of the toes in the sawdust “Wriggle! She wriggled!” A chorus of appeals. The Marshall’s judgement is final. Jenny’s crimson bum is trembling, her knees bend — her buttocks swerve almost involuntarily to one side. “She’s wriggling! She is!”

The Marshall’s cane lines up across the backs of Jenny’s thighs. It’s official! Money changes hands, while Jenny squawls and gives up all attempts not to wriggle.

Rain starts to patter on the roof. A girl is being run up and down in a trap, warming up for the second heat. Jenny’s cries are joined by Lesley’s as the two losers are caned soundly. But they’ll be back next month. So will all the others. No one makes the girls do it — at least, they aren’t supposed to. But there again — who knows.