emboldened he decided to try for one more bit of fun by sliding a hand down her body to grab an ass cheek, and giving the red girl and affectionate squeeze in a furtive caress that caused her to squirm and wiggle her shoulders. He glanced up to see Kimar looking his way, and quickly gave up his pleasant dalliance to return to work, tugging on the harness, slipping a finger under the straps of buttery leather so as to assure a fit free from slack.
Now we saw the true purpose of the strap that hung from the belt as the groom reached between her legs to take up the strap and pull it through her opened thighs. He drew the strap up between her cheeks and held it taut in her crack while he threaded the end through the slip buckle.
The crotch strap was now deeply embedded between the buttocks, and I noticed that a small metal ring had been set into the strap. This grommet was placed so that, with a bit of adjustment, it ringed the puckered anus. The metal grommet would secure the notched plug, keeping it firmly in place up a girl’s ass, throughout even the most strenuous exercise.
The groom left that perfectly-poised ass for just a moment while he coated the little wooden plug with axle grease. Then the stocky fellow man planted a beefy hand squarely on Big Red’s rump, while the other held the greased plug which he processed to screw up the big girl’s churning bottom. Red I wriggled, arched her back, and jacked upright. Her clenching bottom vigorously squirmed, shaking her newly-acquired tail.
The groom waited for her to settle down before stepping back to call the red team to attention. The three slaves straightened up to assume the proud carriage of well-trained ponygirls at the ready: standing tall, bridled heads held high, breasts thrust out, legs pressed tightly together, clasping the crossbar with both hands. Three bright red tails hung straight down from three tight-cheeked young buttocks.
Once the blue team was similarly prepared and in place, the drivers made their appearance. These were even younger girls; slightly built, light-weight girls being most prized to be trained as jockeys. They were, of course, naked; their necks were banded with the 4-inch high slave collar. Each was equipped with a thin whippy rod, which, Lucius assured me, they were not reluctant to use. The teams were now lined up, ready for the start of the race.
At an indifferent wave from the preening procurer, a flicking snap of two light whips stung girlish buttocks, and the ponygirls were off to the roar of delight sent up be the enthusiastic crowd.
They began with the ritual of circling the oval at a canter: the two teams in step, side by side. Trained to show off at such performance, they pranced with the sort of classical, high-stepping precision that was much admired among the connoisseurs of such matters: knees raised high, heads thrown back, chin held high, breasts jiggling as they trotted once around the track. After one lap was completed, with the sustained applause of the racing enthusiasts still ringing in their ears, someone banged a drum, and the race was on.
Now the ponygirls broke into a gallop, straining against the bar, sleek muscled legs pistoning furiously, knees pumping high, and bare feet pounding the hardened earth in syncopated rhythm. We watched the well-oiled teams sprint by, eyeing up the bouncy, juddering breasts, and as they passed in front of us, being treated to the sight of six pairs of churning buttocks, adorned with tails that were swishing, in time with the jogging rhythm of the running girls, as they retreated down the track. I kept my eye on Big Red, straining mightily, her head back, chest thrust out. Her long-legged stride set the pace, so that her teammates were forced to work even harder to match her, stride for stride.
As they entered the home stretch, the little jockeys began wielding their stinging whips with renewed determination, vigorously slashing at the churning buttocks, while the excited
Now we saw the true purpose of the strap that hung from the belt as the groom reached between her legs to take up the strap and pull it through her opened thighs. He drew the strap up between her cheeks and held it taut in her crack while he threaded the end through the slip buckle.
The crotch strap was now deeply embedded between the buttocks, and I noticed that a small metal ring had been set into the strap. This grommet was placed so that, with a bit of adjustment, it ringed the puckered anus. The metal grommet would secure the notched plug, keeping it firmly in place up a girl’s ass, throughout even the most strenuous exercise.
The groom left that perfectly-poised ass for just a moment while he coated the little wooden plug with axle grease. Then the stocky fellow man planted a beefy hand squarely on Big Red’s rump, while the other held the greased plug which he processed to screw up the big girl’s churning bottom. Red I wriggled, arched her back, and jacked upright. Her clenching bottom vigorously squirmed, shaking her newly-acquired tail.
The groom waited for her to settle down before stepping back to call the red team to attention. The three slaves straightened up to assume the proud carriage of well-trained ponygirls at the ready: standing tall, bridled heads held high, breasts thrust out, legs pressed tightly together, clasping the crossbar with both hands. Three bright red tails hung straight down from three tight-cheeked young buttocks.
Once the blue team was similarly prepared and in place, the drivers made their appearance. These were even younger girls; slightly built, light-weight girls being most prized to be trained as jockeys. They were, of course, naked; their necks were banded with the 4-inch high slave collar. Each was equipped with a thin whippy rod, which, Lucius assured me, they were not reluctant to use. The teams were now lined up, ready for the start of the race.
At an indifferent wave from the preening procurer, a flicking snap of two light whips stung girlish buttocks, and the ponygirls were off to the roar of delight sent up be the enthusiastic crowd.
They began with the ritual of circling the oval at a canter: the two teams in step, side by side. Trained to show off at such performance, they pranced with the sort of classical, high-stepping precision that was much admired among the connoisseurs of such matters: knees raised high, heads thrown back, chin held high, breasts jiggling as they trotted once around the track. After one lap was completed, with the sustained applause of the racing enthusiasts still ringing in their ears, someone banged a drum, and the race was on.
Now the ponygirls broke into a gallop, straining against the bar, sleek muscled legs pistoning furiously, knees pumping high, and bare feet pounding the hardened earth in syncopated rhythm. We watched the well-oiled teams sprint by, eyeing up the bouncy, juddering breasts, and as they passed in front of us, being treated to the sight of six pairs of churning buttocks, adorned with tails that were swishing, in time with the jogging rhythm of the running girls, as they retreated down the track. I kept my eye on Big Red, straining mightily, her head back, chest thrust out. Her long-legged stride set the pace, so that her teammates were forced to work even harder to match her, stride for stride.
As they entered the home stretch, the little jockeys began wielding their stinging whips with renewed determination, vigorously slashing at the churning buttocks, while the excited
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