Chapter One

Opening Gambit

 

Many years ago, before this all started, it was my fetish dream to someday live in an environment that was, as close as I could make it, a BDSM-based space that was well within the parameters of the law and the consensual preferences of those who lived there.

At first, it was little more than a dream and there were dozens, perhaps hundreds of barriers to ever realizing it. After all, the annual income of a two-bit, Deputy Chief Inspector in a big European city police department isn't likely to allow such fantasies to come to fruition. What changed this over time was the knowledge gained from some risky real estate ventures, the income generated by them and a continued pressing desire to get the Hell out of the city.

Some people dream of a life of ease with luxury and service that is often promised by developers of more or less ordinary estates and properties, but seldom realized by those foolish enough to purchase the products. As a part time realtor, more than once in my career, I found myself promoting apartments, condos and single family residences that were advertised as luxury but, in reality, had little more evidence of such other than a jacuzzi tub and indirect lighting in the bedroom. Having no interest in such, other than selling it, I started looking for the rural property that might fulfill my interests. It had to be large enough so that any activities on the premises would not be visible or audible from a nearby road or neighbors. Size also controlled noise. So the ideal site was an old farm that had several out buildings in disrepair, an orchard that the local university agricultural team told me could be revived in about a year, unplanted fields that could be cultivated and other useful assets that made the deal attractive, providing I had enough motivation and help to make improvements. In the day of the corporate farming, anything less than 100 acres was more likely to be developed for houses rather than planted with crops. Proximity to an old and inactive aerodrome was, as far as I was concerned, neither a plus nor a minus for the land, but the old, hard surfaced runways and a few disused hangers remained.

For an unmortgaged sum that took most of my savings, I managed to be the high bidder on an auction for a rather rundown place, fifteen miles from the nearest town, and worn out for any uses other than building from the ground up. It was seen by realtors and developers as Bulldozer Property; meaning that it was best suited for leveling the remains of whatever was there and starting over again with new everything. For me, farming per se was not an option. But the present county and regional government had strong interests in keeping thing green, so when I mentioned to the real estate broker that I had equine interests, the tempo of the transaction went up and the prices went down. I had no desire to plant or cultivate crops and didn't want to buy or lease the necessary machinery for such an enterprise. The only things I planned to cultivate were a few young and willing female human ponies and the less said about that the better, I thought.

But government runs on forms, creating them, getting unsuspecting buyers to fill them out and rewarding such seemingly futile endeavors with promises of grants and tax benefits. Everyone wanted to know what my vison for the old place might be. In my better dreams, there was, in fact, the vision of nearly naked, bridled and bitted sweet young things running cart-pulling races on the airport runways and although this was a private dream, it had considerable appeal. Mitigating these thoughts was the fact that the original house was a disaster and would take considerable time and money to repair and make it fit to live in. It had a marvelous dungeon-like basement with the appropriate stone foundation and enough moss and mold growing on the walls to make it fit for keeping recalcitrant, but willing ponygirls confined there until stalls in the barns provided more suitable housing.

The barns and out buildings were sturdy and well designed. I knew that my first improvements would be in the smaller barn because there were more tax benefits to agricultural development and it was my intent, at least in my mind, to raise ponies.

An astute reader will see a contradiction here as I said I was not interested in farming, but was planning agricultural development. Right in both cases. Provincial and county laws were both permissive and ambiguous when it came to defining exactly what agricultural activities were acceptable and which ones were not. I had enough lawyer/solicitor friends and enemies that I was able to ascertain the broad spectrum of permissible activities that would also provide the desired tax benefits. So, while completing the necessary twenty-six application forms to keep the local government bureaucrats happy and occupied with stamping, sealing, endorsing and filing such pointless documents, I discovered that running a stable was one of the approved uses for the property. Maybe race horses, I told them. Maybe just ponygirls, I thought.

To do this, I needed to renovate. This meant hiring contractors to do the work as quickly as possible. I knew from both prior personal and friends' experience that it was common for contractors to make any construction work a nearly unbearable torment for the owners. I was warned about cost over runs, interminable delays and everything short of sabotage, so I sat with another friend, a lawyer who specialized in such cases and she developed a contract portfolio that had big incentives for early completion and harsh punishments for breach thereof. One punishment we contemplated was that violators would merit a reasonable interment as a pony in the very barn that they, the offender(s) had been hired to build. This fantasy wasn't as far out as you might think, for I later discovered that most of the contractors we hired made excellent candidates for the resident pony role.

Then I went to interview thirteen different general contractors and their builders before I found the combination of those who would agree to my terms and could in fact show evidence that they could do as required. This took a lot of time. So, before I was even started, I was exhausted.

Fortunately, I had a very wealthy client in another of my sidelines. I was retained on a continuous basis as a licensed security consultant by a local woman who was always interested in helping me relax while improving my kinky demeanor: Tanya. She was clever, inventive and gorgeous. And yes, she had deficiencies. For one thing, she was married. To a sadistic dolt, which demonstrated her other problem: Tanya wasn't the brightest bulb on the Christmas Tree of life. She wasn't stupid, but now and then she demonstrated a certain lack of good sense. Show her a pair of riding boots and she got red in the face and leaky in the crotch. She also looked extremely hot in pony harness and had the intuitive ability to wear a bridle and bit and still look HOT. In this regard, she and her husband were ideally suited for each other; he being a crazy sadist and Tanya anxious to fuck just about anything that had a riding crop and a pair of handcuffs.

Her idiot husband really had no interest in his wife's equestrian abilities. So, much of her engagement in such was done in private and without his knowledge or participation. This didn't stop Tanya from indulging in the horse fetish to the extreme. Decked out in full body harness with the requisite vaginal probe, bridle, double snaffel, tail plug, hoof boots that came up to her crotch and various chains and reins, on a good day, she would hook up to a machine that functioned as a driver. The double impalements were enormous. Big enough to probably choke a real horse. To Tanya, they were little more than minor accessories.

There were days when she would disappear from her luxurious country home and drive herself to a well-known spa and health farm known only to the richy-rich, move into an elegant coach house that normally provided overnight accommodations for six clients and have the help slowly unload her Bentley of the many suitcases and trunks she had supervised her maid into carefully packing with the implements of sexual domination she needed for any stay exceeding three or four hours. This activity was facilitated by large sums of Euros placed into the hands of the spa owners and others who helped her keep what she called her little secrets. More than once Tanya called me, begging that I come to the Spa at once and bring heavy bolt cutters, hack saws and other tools necessary, she said, to free her from confinement she herself had created and now could not undo. She enjoyed the entire fetish and was always ready for more.

One of her favorite pastimes was to sit astride an expensive, custom-made, saddle-like device that provided several different kinds of vibe. This was her driver machine. When it was engaged, Pony Tanya would fantasize her role as rider and pony simultaneously. Bent forward at the waist with her ringed nipples pulled down and connected to another duet of motors and vibrators, Tanya rode hard, sometimes for hours, driven into orgasmic ecstasy by simply turning the adjustment dial from the "fun" setting to the top of the dial, marked in red and labeled "agony," whenever she got the urge.

Aside from anyone privileged to view her private videos, few people ever witnessed these performances unless there was an abiding reason that concerned Tanya and the viewer. In other words, she used her skilled performances as bait or reward when it suited her needs and demeanor. I was one of the few people, as far as I know, who even witnessed these displays of blatant pony passion.

She had enough money to buy anything she wanted and a bored husband who diddled enough other men and women on the side so that he cared not a wit about why or when his gorgeous wife was sleeping with other men. Tanya was a Trophy wife and they both knew it. In return for being displayed on his arm at the various balls and charity events in Vienna, Frankfurt and other European cities, Tanya tolerated the presence of her worthless husband.

One afternoon when I was on the verge of assassinating the man who was to become my general contractor, Tanya showed up dressed in a Burberry trench coat that covered a toe-to-throat, transparent latex body suit and nothing else other than a pair of red steeple heels and a black knit ski mask. How she managed to drive her Aston Martin rag top from her luxury home to my property without causing an accident was a serious question. In fact, I am certain that there were incidents, if not accidents, in her wake and she neither cared about nor reported them. Provincial police records indicated that on days in question, there was a chain of automobile accidents on the autobahn between her home and mine. The details furnished by involved drivers and witnesses indicated that they had been distracted by a naked blond in a baby blue Bentley with the top down, speeding past them at over one hundred KPH, blowing the horn constantly and disappearing over the next rise, leaving chaos in her wake. Tanya got away with such antics mostly because she was never actually identified as being the driver of the rogue Bentley and because she had enough lawyers and me to distribute thousands of Euros in the right places. Also noteworthy was the fact that none of her autos had a registration plate, front or rear. Tanya did in fact, as was eventually pointed out by her attorney in court, have the requisite license plates, but kept them in the boot of each vehicle, honestly confessing to the judge that they marred the beauty of the vehicle and thus did not deserve display. When the Euros failed to curb complaints, videos of questionable taste involving the same people who were bitching about her driving turned up in embarrassing places. More than once, Tanya's frustrated lawyers hustled her out of the court room after she started waving a few large color photos of the judge's wife, suggesting that the pictures might look good in the weekend edition of the local newspaper. The judge retreated to chambers and summoned the attorneys forthwith. A heated negotiation took place there and miraculously the charges were all dropped for lack of witnesses and other evidence. The judge got the photos as part of the deal along with guarantees that there were no additional copies.

 

The last time she arrived at my temporary home, she muttered something about needing "therapy" before vanishing down the cellar stairs. BDSM Therapy by Tanya was a fetishist's dream. Unannounced and uninvited, she showed up with a leather carry-on pack containing enough bondage equipment and assorted toys to keep even the most dedicated top or bottom occupied for weeks. She walked into my quarters , waved briefly to me and instinctively located the cellar door, then vanished into the depths under the decrepit house without a single word. What followed was thirty hours of some of the most robust sexual activity I had had in months, with Tanya playing any role that entered her fertile, but devious mind and me trying to keep up.

The ceiling beams in the cellar were tested and handily used for suspension of her latex-clad body and once she had suitably arranged herself so that her cuffed ankles were wide spread and attached to the beams overhead, she finished off with a ring gag, blindfold, posture collar and wrists cuffed behind her. Swinging slightly in upside-down suspension, she called me, making odd noises through the ring gag, to come down and join her and then turned out the single light she had rigged up in the cool, damp, below ground room.

"What would you like for openers?" I asked after descending the creaking stairs and turning on a small torch I brought with me.

"Nungh gore ick ninwho me," she gurgled through the ring that held her jaws wide and the strap that kept her cheeks drawn back.

"Huh?" I stupidly asked, slowly unzipping my trousers and revealing to no one but blindfolded Tanya and myself the arising of none other than Mister Flagrant Cock who was already drooling in anticipation. (Yes, I know she was blindfolded, but she knew what I was doing).

"Ouoooz it," she repeated.

I obliged.

Tanya tongued and slurped and sucked and it was a genuine quickie as she swung happily from the rafters and I came in about fifteen seconds. She swallowed and muttered in a frog voice that I should get rid of my clothes and avail myself of something more than a fast blow job.

To enhance the scene, I slowly lowered her until her widely spread, bare feet touched the dirt floor and reversed the position so that her cuffed hands were pulled upwards behind her, forcing her to bend forward slightly at the waist. Another rope went from the back of her collar to her hands and then more rope went around her upper torso, three bands around her chest below those fabulous tits and three more above them. I slowly tightened the twin rope bands, squeezing the blossoming boob mounds until they stuck out even more than they normally did, tied off the loops and took the rope end down to her elbows, forcing them together while she happily howled through the ring gag. For less noise, I inserted an inflatable rubber plug that may have once been intended as a drain stopper into the ring gag and then pumped it up a bit to make sure the aperture was sealed shut. Despite her best efforts, Tanya was no longer capable making any intelligent sounds, so she reverted to one of her most effective means of communication, wagging her tits. It may not sound like much, but speaking from extensive experience and closer than safe exposure to several episodes of Tanya's tit wagging, I can write that despite what it lacks in clarity this body exercise is just as effective today when practiced by Tanya as is was and is effective for any experienced striper seeking to make a lasting impression on her audience. But, at least I had the welcome silence of the cellar in which to contemplate the twin waving mammalies swinging in the dim light. I had no idea what she wanted, but the easy thing to do when in doubt is enhance the effect, so I slowly attached a pair of steel clamps to those vibrant nips and the noise from behind the sealed mouth gag increased in intensity as I closed the clamps. Whether it was from the shock of having her twin headlights suddenly squeezed as one might do when trying to pinch a tick off a dog's head, I didn't know, but the noise stopped.

Silence.

Ah, peace at last. Eventually, while I availed myself of her lovely ass, Tanya hummed and gurgled and buzzed, but the mouth plug held and I went about my usual chores of attempting to appease this wiggling little blond.