INTRODUCTION

My name is Simon Fenton. I'm a businessman, working abroad. It doesn't matter where the country is and I'm afraid it's classified information anyway for fairly obvious reasons. Let's just say that it's somewhere in the Persian Gulf. I run an office with the aid of a secretary. We're in the import and export business, part of a large company. Again, their name isn't important, but you will have heard of them. My job is varied, arranging export licences, entertaining prospective clients, negotiating deals and so on.

The town where I work is built around an oasis. Pretty secure, because there is no other habitation for at least fifty miles in any direction. There are desert patrols, too, making sure no unauthorised person gets in - or out.

It's why anybody would want to that's the interesting part.

You see, the government of this country has made this town special. Here, the slave trade has not been abolished. In fact it thrives, actively supported by the authorities but hidden from the view of the bleeding heart liberals of Europe. The slaves are all young, exceptionally attractive and predominantly female. Where do they come from? Some have been abducted from their homes all over the world. Others are the offspring of the government's opponents: even the most dedicated revolutionary will keep quiet if he knows that one word out of place from him will earn his daughter an extra whipping. Others still have been slaves from birth, their parents - or mothers at least - slaves all their lives, often bred for their beauty. Oh, and by the way, we're not talking about a few slaves here. There are hundreds of them.

Living and working here is like a dream come true. I'm writing this because I want to share the flavour of that dream with you, even if you can't come here and sample it for yourself. Some of it I've written myself, some has been ghost written by a professional writer (I'm a busy man) who followed me around during this period, witnessing how I live and interviewing the people involved, and some by some of the other people involved; that's why different chapters are written from different viewpoints. The source of each chapter is stated for reference. I would like to thank Mr. Harvey Aldridge for his substantial contributions and also acknowledge that of several young ladies, although their input came under orders, of course. Between us, I think we've got it all down pretty accurately, and I hope you enjoy it.

CHAPTER ONE OFF TO WORK

Source: interview with Simon Fenton

Simon surveyed the waiting ponies in the taxi rank.

All the choices were tempting, but Simon had a lot of work to do at the office today. There was a powerful blonde who he had driven once or twice before, who would probably get him to his destination the fastest. He walked up to her, idly drinking in the big but firm tits, powerful thighs and the wispy curls of blonde hair at the juncture at the top of those thighs. A genuine blonde then, as far as Simon could see. Of course, she was naked, except for the collar, harness and a pair of sandals. Her arms reached out in front of her to a bar which she would push to move the cart. Some of the other girls were in pulling harnesses, arms fastened behind their backs, dragging their carts behind them. Entertaining enough, but not as fast as this arrangement. Even so, this girl's harness would ensure that when she was pushing the bar, plenty of the tension would be taken by her body. The harness itself was a simple affair: from a waistband, twin straps led back to the cart. Unable to move away from the cart, she had thus been required to lean forwards some distance to grasp the horizontal shaft ahead of her and the cuffs which now kept her holding it prevented her from straightening up once more, thus keeping her in her bent over position. Whilst moving, she would have to keep her head up to see where she was going, but right now it was more comfortable for her to look down at the ground, an ideal pose for a slave. There was also a head harness, securing the bit in place and keeping her long blonde locks swept back from her face. From it, two reins led back to the cart.

As he approached, she raised her head, as was required of her, to receive her instructions. She was a pretty thing, a buxom girl with big wide blue eyes and a good complexion. The bit forced her mouth slightly open, displaying strong, even white teeth. It distorted any expression she might have had, but the eyes were expressive enough: there was a deep resignation in them, more than a hint of sadness, certainly a good deal of humiliation, but also a grim determination. She had to get through today's ordeal: the punishment if she was found wanting did not bear thinking about. The harsh but challenging time she faced today was, in Simon's view, a great character builder. Of course, there would be an identical ordeal tomorrow, and the next day ...

For a moment, he reached out for a brief feel of the twin bosoms so nicely presented for him. Her eyes flickered down for a split-second, then she forced herself to meet his gaze even as he stroked the smooth, resilient skin. It would be foolish for her to risk being reported for not being attentive, he knew. Well, he was in a hurry.

"Seventeen, Castle Street," he ordered abruptly and climbed into the cab behind her. She inclined her head just slightly to acknowledge the order. Ponies on duty were not allowed to speak: in any case the bit would have turned her words into gibberish, but who is interested in the words of a pony slave? As far as Simon was concerned, she was only a beast of burden, to be used in whatever ways, sexual or merely physical, amused her owners. As a taxpayer, he was one of those owners.

As soon as he had settled into the cart, Simon picked up the reins and flicked them. The leather slapped against her bare back, not hard, but sending the message that he was ready. She moved off. Simon saw the muscles ripple under the smooth skin of her curvaceous thighs and felt the cart gradually pick up speed. It moved from an inch by inch crawl to walking pace, then she transformed smoothly into a trot. It was a skilful beginning, but of course she was well trained and experienced. Simon wondered idly how long she had been a pony, but although he couldn't recall the first time he had seen her - one loses track with so many gorgeous pony slaves around - it must have been several months earlier, at least.

She continued to pick up speed, then settled into a slow trot. Not fast enough, Simon decided, and flicked the reins, listening to the gentle lapping sound they made as they impacted onto her bare back like small waves coming into the shore. Immediately she increased speed again. Still not fast enough, Simon flicked her with the reins once more, harder this time. There was another increase in speed: she was now up to a very fast trot, one he himself would struggle to maintain even without pulling the vehicle. Strong though she might be, the combined weight of himself and the cart was no laughing matter and she was having to put in a tremendous effort. That, however, was expected as standard. He could hear her deep panting, her breath whistling slightly as it emerged past the stainless steel bridle. She would probably be dribbling slightly - it's hard to control saliva when you cannot close your mouth. Satisfied now, Simon relaxed in his seat and contemplated the big buttocks in front of him. The cart seat was slung quite low and he could clearly see her vulva as her parted thighs pumped rhythmically away. Also, around the side, he could see the heavy breasts bouncing delightfully up and down as she laboured. She was undoubtedly a big girl. Most ponies were: although a lightweight, with sufficient encouragement from the whip, could certainly pull a cart, one had to remember that these girls did six or eight hour shifts.

Sometimes lightweights were paired. That was often a delightful sight. There is something about a pair of naked female slaves, each aware that her exposed charms may be easily compared to and contrasted with those of the beauty beside her and wondering if she is up to scratch. Of course, if she was a pony girl, her mind would more likely be on her immediate task.

Just as the mind of this one was similarly focused right now. Simon watched the bouncing boobs with dry amusement. The girl's actual movement was so well trained as to be automatic, it was the effort she had to focus on. Her gait was carefully designed to make her tits undulate in a controlled manner: nobody wanted her wobbling all over the place like a half-melted jelly. Very occasionally a big-titted girl was given the kindness of a boob harness, but only rarely: it was too nice to see a good pair smoothly rippling up and down.

Simon's eyes moved back to the globes of her buttocks. It was now around eight o'clock, so the girl had been on duty for an hour, ferrying the very early risers to work. Despite her best efforts, her bum was already liberally decorated. Well, that was only to be expected. The cheeks themselves were red all over and it was possible to make out a few more distinct lines standing out from the blotches. Simon felt the urge to add to her marks, to leave his own impression so to speak. To the one side of the cart there was a multi-bladed martinet, to the other a single-bladed strap. On impulse, Simon picked up the martinet and lined up his stroke. Concentrating on her work and unable to turn her head, the slave girl could not see what was about to happen to her; but she must be aware of what a tempting target her bare bottom made and that there was no reason on earth why her driver should not indulge himself. How must it be like, Simon wondered momentarily, to never know when the next stinging stroke is coming?

Simon swung his arm and the martinet connected with the youthful flesh with a satisfying 'thwack'. Caught unawares, there was a muffled squeal of pain from the girl, distorted by the bit. Her stride did not falter, however: she was too well trained for that. Instead, even as the aftershock throbbing must have been spreading through her nether regions, she picked up the pace. She had already been pushing herself hard, but from somewhere she found a few dregs of extra energy. Simon sat back in his seat, contented. He had enjoyed watching the ripple of the impact through the muscular flesh; now he enjoyed watching her having to push herself even harder and also her heightened dread of another stroke. And whatever she did, she would know full well that she would get many more strokes before her shift today was over. Even then she had little to look forward to: she would be incarcerated once more in her cell at the stables, where it was quite possible she might have an unwelcome visitor or two, some vile man who had seen her during the day and fancied giving her a good shafting. Otherwise she would be able to settle her weary body down onto the straw and she would quickly fall asleep: after a shift, ponies never had trouble sleeping! She would probably not awaken until the next morning, when her next ordeal would start.

They turned the corner into Castle Street. The girl slowed, checking the numbers of the office buildings and pulled to a halt outside number seventeen, Simon's office. Simon got out, drinking in the sight of the girl as he did so, noting how the film of perspiration on her flanks seemed to glisten in the sunlight and also how her legs trembled with tiredness and her chest heaved as she gasped for breath. She had got him here satisfactorily quickly, as he required. For a moment, Simon considered giving the girl a fucking, right here in the street. It was far from uncommon to see a pony, still standing in harness, being mounted from the rear by a man in the street, just as a real horse would tackle a mare. Interestingly enough, whilst men rarely seemed to be bothered that they looked like rutting animals, the slave girls invariably hated being publicly abused in this way. Of course, no slave girl was a stranger to forced sex, but they seemed to hate the public violation more than other ways. It would be amusing to take her now, but Simon reluctantly decided against it. He needed to be focused this morning, to concentrate on his work and anyway he was short of time. Maybe some other time. He looked at her collar to find her name, so that he knew who to order if he visited the stables this weekend; each slave girl had a different name. 'Shire Horse', the collar read. Simon smiled: a very suitable nomenclature, he thought. He contented himself with another leisurely feel of one of the girl's big but firm boobs as they dangled slightly in front of her. Very nice: the flesh smooth and satiny, soft and yielding beneath his fingers and yet firm enough to respond and push back. He felt for the nipple: it was fairly erect, which he knew would be a by-product of her exertion, not any arousal. He let his fingers brush over her large aureole and then removed his hand. His other hand slapped her bare buttock, none too gently, indicating that she could depart. Clearly requiring quite an effort to get herself going again, the girl began to move forwards. The reins from her harness went taut and Simon became aware for the first time just how much of the tension which pulled the cart came from her body via the harness. The big bottom, still showing the red mark he had made with the whip, passed him as she began to gather speed. He watched her move away for a moment before forgetting her and walking into his office block.