The next morning it was Wullie. His first words were, 'Pixie the wonder pony; and it is fine to be beating you now. We must see wha' we can dae! Somethin' tae remember - Eh?'

Pixie remained mute, it was not wise to give any groom an excuse to punish a pony and Pixie had just the faintest of notions that 'punishment' had wide interpretation.

Nevertheless Wullie kept up a steady stream of muttered grumbles as he went about the grooming and Pixie deduced that something important to him had gone wrong. Finally everything was done and Wullie fitted the bridle. Pixie concluded that more training on the lunge was due, but Wullie led her into the carriage shed to a central space between the parked chariots. She was made to stand on a short plank supported on two bricks and set beneath two ropes hanging from the roof truss. Wullie produced a milkmaid's yoke that he placed on Pixie's shoulders. Lifting her arms, he hooked her cuffs to eyes set at the ends of the bar. Two fine chains from the shoulder section were hooked to her collar. 'Mind to be keeping still or you'll be choking yourself,' he warned. The two ropes were hooked to her bit and hauled up until she was carrying most of her weight on her upper jaw. This tilted her head back making it hard to retain the yoke in the way it was designed to work and she grasped the true import of his warning.

He kicked the plank from beneath her feet and all the weight came onto the bit. Her head tipped back, she swayed and the yoke slipped. At once the weight of it dragged on her collar. Wullie stood laughing at her struggles before turning away, leaving her swinging while he walked the length of the room and returned carrying a riding crop.

'I did warn y'!' he said, restoring the yoke to its correct place.

Pixie was trying to regain control of the yoke: her neck was sore and she was struggling to control the yoke with her arms when he began his assault.

'You'll like this, chust as y' did the whip!' he grunted as he laid into her thighs. The impact made her swing, fearful of the consequences of the yoke slipping again, she tried to steady herself: it was only possible by pressing her toes to the floor. As this was almost beyond her reach the strain on her calves was immense and she was forced to relax from time to time. This set up the swinging and, as the strain increased, the time she could maintain contact reduced and so the rest periods decreased. Having thoroughly heated up the backs of her thighs, he moved to the front. This did nothing to ease Pixie's problems.

Dividing her concentration in this way reduced the amount of pleasurable feeling she could extract from the situation. This was not punishment for anything other than being what she was and its purpose was directed to one end: Wullie Dougal's personal sexual satisfaction. Pixie knew that the conclusion would be a thorough fucking with the single aim of satisfying Wullie. She determined that she would take some pleasure from it whatever might come. But it would be a long time coming, for she was certain his intent was to hurt her much more before he plunged his member into her body. In this she was correct. From her thighs he moved to her belly, from there back to her thighs, then her buttocks, back to front thighs, up across her belly to her breasts and back to her thighs to finish on her buttocks.

Pixie was exhausted when she was released, but Wullie made her carry the yoke back to its brackets on the wall before he bent her across a trestle to service her. That part of her belly resting on the trestle was the only section of her body that he had not beaten to resemble raw steak, for this she was thankful for she could manage to concentrate on the undeniable pleasure of his stubby thick cock scouring her vagina.

'Cunts are beautiful creations,' she thought as she rode his thrusts. 'Thank you, God.'

 

The rigour of Craggan's regime was underlined the moment Wullie withdrew. He clipped on the lunge rein and hurried her out to the paddock. Hamish was waiting there.

'Y' took y' time, it's having y'r oats again is it?' he growled.

Wullie scowled, but made no reply, simply handing over the rein.

Hamish snatched them. 'Och awa wi y'! Tak Sparkle oot for her gallop an dinna be shagging the arse off her, Mister Alistair is wanting her nice an' fresh.'

Back to the lunge again. It was a welcome release after the ordeal in the carriage shed, but Pixie had to dig deep into her reserves to produce an acceptable performance. It was obviously lacking for Hamish was applying the whip more than he had in recent sessions. Pixie's condition was obvious, but Hamish made no allowance for it. This was Craggan and Craggan gave no quarter, so the long thin whip curled across those fiery scars without restraint, but Pixie was content. Her performance was below par; it was justly punished: that was acceptable, she drank deeply of it and it restored her spirits.