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<1st attachment, "Cannibal4H_Chapter_21.TXT" begin>
Title: Cannibal 4H
Author: Eurytion
Part: Chapter 21 of 40(?)
Keywords: Cannibalism, Ponygirl, Snuff
Redistribution: Not without author's permission
Summary: See below
If you are discovering C4H for the first time, please pay careful
attention to the following:
CANNIBAL 4H (C4H) IS A WORK OF FICTION AND IS FOR ADULTS ONLY.
THIS IS AN INTENSE STORY WHICH CONTAINS THE RAISING OF HUMANS AS
LIVESTOCK. C4H CONTAINS GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF SEX IN MANY AND
VARIED FORMS, SOME OF WHICH SELECTED PEOPLE MIGHT CONSIDER
DEVIANT AND PERVERSE.
C4H CONTAINS VIOLENCE, DEATH AND, OF COURSE, CANNIBALISM.
CHILDREN ARE NOT SPARED IN THIS TALE! THEY OFTEN MEET A GRISLY
END. C4H IS NOT WRITTEN FOR THE SQUEAMISH OR THE PURITANICAL.
NOR IS IT MEANT FOR MINORS.
MANY PEOPLE WOULD FIND THE CONTENTS OF THIS FICTIONAL TALE
EXTREMELY DISTURBING. IF YOU EVEN HAVE THE SLIGHTEST SUSPICION
THAT YOU MAY BE ONE OF THEM READ NO FURTHER.
THE AUTHOR DOES NOT ENDORSE OR ADVOCATE THE PRACTICES FOUND
WITHIN C4H ANY MORE THAN STEPHEN KING REALLY BELIEVES PEOPLE
SHOULD MOVE THEIR FAMILIES INTO A DESERTED HOTEL IN THE MOUNTAINS
IN THE DEAD OF WINTER AND THEN TRY TO CHOP THEM INTO KIBBLE WITH
AN AXE. C4H IS FICTION, MAKE-BELIEVE, A FANTASY, A FABRICATION,
NOT A PROMOTION OF THE CULTURE IT DESCRIBES.
IF READING THIS STORY WOULD IN ANY WAY VIOLATE THE LOCAL LAWS,
RULES, REGULATIONS, MORALS OR CUSTOMS WHERE YOU LIVE GO AWAY.
THERE ARE MANY OTHER MORE EDIFYING STORIES TO BE FOUNDELSEWHERE.
LET ME RESTATE THIS ONE MORE TIME: THE STORY WHICH FOLLOWS THIS
CAUTION IS INTENDED FOR MATURE, CONSENTING ADULTS ONLY AND SHOULD
ONLY BE ACCESSED AND/OR DOWNLOADED IF DOING SO WOULD NOT VIOLATE
ANY LEGAL EDICTS ADHERED TO IN YOUR LOCALE OR YOUR OWN PERSONAL
TASTE.
IF YOU ARE A PARENT AND YOU FIND YOUR CHILD HAS DOWNLOADED THIS
STORY OR OTHER MATERIAL YOU FIND OBJECTIONABLE, SORRY BUT YOU
NEED TO DO A BETTER JOB OF BEING A PARENT.
CONSIDER MOVING THE COMPUTER INTO A ROOM WHERE YOU CAN SEE WHAT
IS ON THE SCREEN. ONLY LET YOUR CHILD GO ON-LINE WHILE YOU ARE AT
HOME OR CHECK OUT THE SERVICES LISTED BELOW:
www.cyberpatrol.com
www.surfwatch.com
www.safesurf.com
www.eff.org.
For the faithful readers of C4H, I'm sorry about the very, very
long wait for this story to continue. Writer's block can be a
bitch. Please see the end of this chapter for a question and an
invitation.
For new readers I'd suggest you check out the first 20 chapters.
Previous chapters of Cannibal 4-H are available at www.asstr-mirror.org
and www.bsdmlibrary.com.
Our story so far:
In Chapter One: A New Project by Neuralmancer --- we meet Joey
who lives on a human cattle ranch owned by his father. His
girlfriend, Linda Sue, uses her feminine charm to convince Joey's
dad to allow Joey to raise and enter a human cattle in the
upcoming judging at the Cannibal 4H fair.
In Chapter Two: The Fair by Neuralmancer --- Joey and Linda Sue
take their human cow to the fair. Watching the activities in the
butchering tent leads them to an afternoon of carnal delight,
followed by a repast of medium done portions of human cattle
thigh and rump well covered with barbecue sauce, onions and
mushrooms. Joey envisions Linda Sue rotating about a cooking
flame.
In Chapter Three: The Slaughtering by Eurytion --- we find Joey
and Linda Sue on their way to Japan, reminiscing about their
first Cannibal 4H fair. We meet Al Crenshaw, owner of Crenshaw
Superior Meats who has bought Joey's blue ribbon-winning cow.
Joey and Linda Sue lend a hand in the slaughtering.
In Chapter Four: A Maverick's Conversion by Eurytion --- Linda
Sue catches Valerie, Joey's thirteen year old neighbour who has a
huge crush on Joey without her identification badge. Under the
fair's rules, that makes her a maverick to be claimed by the
first person who finds her. Linda Sue relinquishes her claim to
Joey who reluctantly decides to have the youngster converted by
McCain's into livestock for his new human veal venture.
In Chapter Five: A Brother's Visit by Eurytion --- Cow 701's
former brother Billy and Joey patch up a friendship strained by
Valerie's conversion. Billy, acting on the advice of his grief
counsellor, participates in the feeding of 701 and enjoys his
former sister's oral ministrations. We learn, to achieve
"closure" his entire family has "to be there when they butcher
her and then we have to help eat her."
In Chapter Six: Evaluations and Judgements by Eurytion --- Linda
Sue is sized up by a professional and given a passing grade. Cow
701 passes a father's muster as does her owner. And we learn of
Joey's final promise to Valerie.
In Chapter Seven: At the Fair by Eurytion --- Cow 701 arrives at
the fair. Linda Sue models spits for a special barbecue. And Joey
tips his hand.
In Chapter Eight: A Fijian Feast by Eurytion --- Cow 701 pleases
the judges while Linda Sue pleasures the cook. Billy learns the
true meaning of finger licking good and a trip to the South Seas
is contemplated.
In Chapter Nine: Patty's Lesson by Eurytion --- Another young
girl learns a valuable lesson and Joey is given an idea for a new
branch of the business
In Chapter Ten: Reaching Closure by Eurytion --- Although it's
hard, Joey keeps his promise to Valerie. Linda Sue dispatches one
adversary only to meet a more formidable foe. Despite the
recovery of a missing item, Valerie loses her head. Taking a cue
from the rest of the family, Billy advances relations with his
cousin Terri.
In Chapter Eleven: The Sunday Dinner by Eurytion --- The Hewitts
say good-bye to Valerie while Linda Sue suggests a family
replacement.
In Chapter Twelve: The Plot Advances by Eurytion --- Joey
suggests Terri and Linda Sue engage in a game of horse. A
sparkling new friendship is formed while an almost cow plots
revenge.
In Chapter Thirteen: The War Begins by Eurytion --- Anneliese
strikes her first blow against human cattle ranching while an old
friend of her aunt's frets about the future.
In Chapter Fourteen: The Eyes Have It by Eurytion --- A brush
with incontinence leads Anneliese to stumble upon her inamorata.
In Chapter Fifteen: The Pinto Project by Eurytion --- Joey goes
dotty over a new undertaking.
In Chapter Sixteen: At The Stables by Eurytion --- We visit Kyner
Stables to find a home for Terri and Linda Sue
In Chapter Seventeen: Through the Microscope of Dreams by
Eurytion --- We look at the hidden occurrences in the souls of
our main characters.
In Chapter Eighteen: In Training by Eurytion --- A pair of new
ponies are put through their paces preparatory to the Chiron Cup
races.
In Chapter Nineteen: A Marriage Ends by Eurytion --- We learn a
little more about the legal system and watch a marriage
terminate.
In Chapter Twenty: Crossing the Finish Line by Eurytion --- Joey
closes in on the Cup.
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all
rights
reserved by its authors unless explicitly indicated.
As always, my thanks to Neuralmancer for allowing me to take over
the mortgage on his farm.
Eurytion
And now Cannibal 4H Chapter Twenty-one: Crossing The Finish Line
by Eurytion
THE LIGHTS HAD COME ON at the raceway, an illuminating diamond
necklace circling the dark throat of the sky, crystalline
brilliance spilling downward to bathe the track in a
phosphorescent cloud of tamed fire.
Perched on the edge of his seat, Joey shook like a malaria
victim, the fever of success and the foreboding chill of failure
alternately sweeping through his body. His quest for the Chiron
Cup would be decided by this last fledgling class race.
On his right, Edmund Dirks sat as relaxed as though he was
sitting for a portrait. His posture of repose was a
well-practised cover. Within himself, the manager of Kyner
Stables was feeling a high sense of excitement. His entries had
run extremely well this meet, already garnering him enough points
to require Mitchell to finance this year's trip to Tahiti. A win
by the number six horse would be the proverbial frosting on the
cake; assuring his young friend of taking home the Chiron Cup he
so coveted.
Over the past three weeks Dirks had come to be very found of Joey
and not just as a current and potentially continuing client. Joey
had been unafraid to dive head first into the deep waters of
racing and, perhaps because of his initial ignorance, had been a
quick and avid pupil, one who could easily prosper in the sport.
Despite his early shyness this morning, he had acquitted himself
well in the social jungle that was the Squire's Parlour, to the
point that Mrs. Satran had made certain discreet "inquiries"
about Joey's "domestic situation" on behalf of her daughter
Sophia.
Even the failure of his other pony to perform in an adequate
manner had done little to alter Joey's expressed enjoyment of the
day. But finally, and understandably, his nerves were showing.
Wordlessly, the stable manager placed a calming hand on the
shoulder of his nervous charge, only to have it shook off as a
horse shakes off a nagging fly.
"I'm fine Edmund. I'm not going to pass out or throw up. Well, at
least I'm not going to pass out," Joey said, a tense smile
teasing its way across his face.
"Did you know, Joseph, that I did exactly that once," Dirks
asked, smiling in return.
"Did what?"
"Regurgitate at an awkward moment. It was more than 30 years
ago, just before the first horse I had ever trained on my own
ran. I was an eager apprentice trainer with Pavicji's at the
time. The stewards were probably a minute from bringing the
horses out on to the track and I was needlessly giving final
instructions to the driver. In the middle of warning him he
needed to use a light hand on the whip with this particular
filly, the butterflies in my stomach won their freedom and I
vomited right onto the seat of the sulky."
Laughter burst out of Joey like a jack-in-the-box.
"Go right ahead and laugh young man. I can assure you that, at
the time, I found nothing humorous in the situation. And, since
there was not enough time to clean up my spewings before the
race, well, let us just say that while he has forgiven me,
Mitchell has never forgotten the incident nor has he let me
forget."
"The Mitchell MacHale you introduced me to this morning, that
Mitchell? He used to be a driver and you puked into his seat
before a race. Edmund, I can't believe it. You actually
upchucked and he had to sit in it for the entire race."
"It was worse than that. Lev Pavicji was not going to trust his
best prospect to an untried team, so the filly he gave us was not
particularly fast, although in the class she was entered in she
did not have to be. Despite the distracting circumstances
Mitchell found himself in, he did win the contest although it was
a very slow race. Mitchell was quite distressed at the end,"
continued Dirks, noting to himself that the conversation was
serving its purpose, as Joseph had quit shaking and seemed to be
regaining his composure.
"But your horse won, the one the two of you trained. So what if
he had to sit in puke. He won right?"
"Ah Joseph, even though Mitchell and I were a team, during the
months of training of the filly we also became friendly
competitors for the favours of a young woman, the daughter of the
horse's owner, Ami Raineau. Let us just say that when the time
came for Ami to drape the Mums and Mallows over Mitchell's head
his rather malodorous condition did nothing to commend him to her
good graces. Nor, once she became aware of it, did the fact that
I was responsible for Mitchell's less than savoury aroma as she
bestowed his brow with a kiss, add to my charm."
Even as he told his story, Edmund's mind called forth memories of
the Haitian-born scion of the French horse breeder. Her dark
flashing eyes. The soft dusky nape of her neck, always awash in
yielding velvet brown curls, ringlets sliding this way and that
as she strode past the stalls. When she knew they were watching,
the way she adopted the firm carriage and gait of a military
cadet, shoulders thrown back to accentuate her small, pert
breasts, an extra effort made to call attention to the twin half
moons of her rolling buttocks packed so tightly into their denim
covering.
How she looked at them, a heady mixture of affection and
indifference, joy and humour, innocence and concupiscence. The
way she would smile at he and Mitchell, always with a casual
touch as she glided past. Sometimes, if there were no observers,
the touch would go beyond casual; a bolder, lingering brush with
more than a hint of promise to it. Promise that had never been
redeemed.
Oh Ami, you deserved a better fate than the one which found you.
Damn you Travis, damn your soul and damn me for my weakness.
We've all paid the bill for my cowardice.
Returning to the present, Dirks chided himself for lapsing into
melancholy. He'd quit being mastered by his emotions years ago
and had no desire to return to that particular servitude. Being
around his young client had brought with it the "gift" of
remembrance of things past, a very mixed blessing to say the
least. Best to concentrate on the next race and leave the past
where it belonged.
Back in the paddock, Cort Szeman busied himself in the corner
making last moment adjustments to the sulky. That was his job,
that and getting the most of of the pony once they were on the
track. The task of getting the pony ready for this final race
belonged his partner, Beven Vass.
Holding Terri's head in his hands, Bevan tilted her head upwards,
forcing their gazes to meet. "See my little pony, I told you that
you would run harder and faster and stronger than any other pony
on the track and you have. You've done well. But you're not done
yet. There's one more finish line to cross."
Determination burned in the filly's eyes like the fire of candles
in a darkened shrine. Cort wouldn't need to use his whip, Bevan
judged, this pony's desire and longing to prove her worth would
be goad enough. Crouching down, the trainer began a massage with
the stable's own enervating gel, a combination of amino acids,
minerals and vitamins in a special, fast-penetrating base, his
hands rubbing her legs in an unconscious mimicry of a chef
coating a piece of meat with oil before placing it in the oven.
The yellow goo would give her a short-term energy boost by
neutralising some of the build-up of lactic acid and ketones
during the race as well as replacing lost potassium and
magnesium. Kyner Stables believed in taking every advantage they
could get.
As he reached the top of her thighs, Bevan's craggy face was
split by a small smile. The new dark cotton knickers the pony was
wearing to help prevent chafing was already stained by a sharp,
tangy dampness, a sure sign of her readiness for the race and for
other things as well. With a final slap on her ass, he turned the
pony over to her driver.
An allegro roll of the drums followed by an equally quick
arpeggio from a solitary bugle announced the final competition
for the fledgling class. Nine ponies were led to the starting
line but Joey's attention was riveted on only two entries, his
pony and the cinnabar-clothed number eight pony. With the
withdrawal of the number three pony due to a pulled hamstring,
the competition for the Cup had come down to these two fillies.
Whichever one won would win the Cup.
Conscious thought had abandoned Terri, replaced by raw surging
sensations. The feel of the reins lying loosely against her back,
the almost palpable presence of the crowd, the tense breathing of
the ponies and their drivers punctuated by the creaking of the
sulkies as the animals and drivers shifted for the best
advantage, the acrid putrescence of a nervous fart from the pony
next to her. These had become the boundaries of Terri's world.
At the centre of this world, the core of her being, was the need
to achieve victory over the red-hued pony, the pony that had
already beaten her today, the pony she couldn't lose to again.
For Decima Reis it was a different story. Alarm was cutting
through her mind like a knife through flesh. Her focus was not on
the race, only the consequences of losing it. Unlike the other
entries, she wasn't a "impermanent" with a guaranteed right of
reversion to human status when the race was done, she had to win
this race to do that. Lose and she would be a human equine for
life. She realised that now, realised it later than she should
but not too late. She could still get herself out of this. One
last win, there was no other option.
Remember your manta, Cort told himself. The race doesn't begin at
the starting line. The race isn't won at the finish line. It's
won somewhere along the course. Look for the advantage and take
it.
Your pony is spirited. She'll want the lead right way so keep her
reined in. Get her out well, but not too quickly. Get her
comfortable and moving through the field. Go with her strengths.
And watch out for the number eight pony, she's finally realised
what's at stake, look at her eyes.
That number eight pony will need to get away or at least be
within a length of the leader to win. She lacks discipline
otherwise she wouldn't be in this fix in the first place. So she
won't pace herself, she'll be flying from the start, challenging
the others to keep up. This is gonna be a frantic over-distance
sprint, can't get too far behind but gotta make sure my pony has
something left for the sixth lap at the end. And keep in tight on
the curves.
Cort's mental instructions to himself ended with the sharp report
of the starting gun. Shoulder to shoulder the nine human fillies
began their first circuit of the track.
By second lap each slap of her feet on the cinders sent pain
shooting through Terri's arches, ankles and the bones of her
shins. The pain didn't bother her, it reminded her of the essence
of her needs: breathe, stride, breathe, stride, a comforting
rhythm. When she needed to do something more her master would
tell her.
In the lead, Decima felt heady confidence rise in her like wine
filling a goblet. This was her race, easier to run than her last
cross-country race when she'd won her third championship, no
hills here, just a nice flat surface. She'd blow these other
bitches off the track; they couldn't keep up with her on the best
day they ever had.
A few more minutes and she'd be free. No more threat of
conversion hanging over her head; she'd be able to live her life
again. She'd show them all; that prissy cunt who called herself a
coach, the one who'd pretended to be Decima's friend and then
gave her scholarship to another girl just because her grades
slipped a little. That fat foul-breathed bastard of a boss who's
framed her and turned her into the cops when she wouldn't put out
for him. He wanted to be paid back. She'd play him back plenty
once this was over, just not in either of the currencies he
wanted. And that judge that had sentenced her. Butter wouldn't
melt in his mouth when he did this to her. Acted like he was
doing her a favour by sentencing her to this hell. Well Decima
Reis would have the last laugh on all of them; she'd use their
bloody precious Cup to store her tampons in, that'd fix 'em.
Even as her driver yanked back on the reins to slow her down,
Decima picked up her pace. Run, run as fast as you can. You can't
catch me, I'm even quicker than the gingerbread man
By the fourth lap, muscles were turning to rubber. The distance
between the field had widened On top by six lengths, seemingly
unaffected by the pace she had setting, was the number eight
pony. Decima's thighs were scissoring past each other like a
finely tuned clockwork automaton. It was an illusion.
Her head restrained, Decima's field of view was limited to what
was ahead of her. She felt like the fox and the hound at same
moment. So close to the end, so near to winning but she couldn't
tell where she stood in the race. She tried to ignore the
feeling of anxiety that was watering her wine but her mind kept
focusing on what was behind her. Who is still with me? Who might
make a break? Should I give it all I've got left now or wait
until the last lap?
As they neared the backstretch of the fifth circuit, Cort noticed
the lead pony's strides were getting shorter, her feet coming off
the track just a little less with each step. She was beginning to
falter. Time to go, Cort decided, intuition supplanting planning.
Come around the clubhouse turn on the rail and take off like holy
hell. For the first time in the race he used the whip.
The bite of the whip jolted Terri like electricity, energising
every fibre of her being. Faintly she could her her master
yelling, "This is it baby, Let's go. One revolution left, one
more time around the track, one more lap for it all. The hay is
in the barn. Come on, the hay is in the barn. Burn her up baby,
make that crimson bitch just another cinder on the track. Be
tough now, be tough." The whip cracked again.
Terri gathered herself together, drawing a rush of determination
from deep inside her. Sweat danced off her body, surrounding her
with a salty fog of her own making. Her pace increased, her
strides grew longer and her senses began to shut down. She felt
nothing but her heartbeat, heard nothing but her breath, saw
nothing but the dancing raspberry plume growing larger in front
of her with each step.
The marathon had become a dash, one final revolution of merciless
burning, a war of sinew and nerves, a contest where runners never
caught their breath and where courage as much as strength would
determine the winner.
Even as each breath she took laid heavy as cement on her lungs,
even as streams of pulsating fire flowed through every muscle,
Terri pushed forward, slowly closing the gap between her and her
opponent. Pain didn't matter. Exhaustion didn't matter. Crossing
the finish line first was what mattered.
Horror was surging through Decima's mind like flood waters
through a gorge, drowning all her training. She didn't have to
see, she could feel a pony coming up behind her. Ignoring the
shouts of her driver, the scorpion stings of the crop, Decima
began to panic.
She couldn't lose this race, she couldn't. She wanted to be a
person, not a horse. Oh please, she was sorry for all she'd done;
sorry for not studying, sorry for taking the money; she'd do
anything, make amends to everyone, even let her boss have his way
with her and film it if she just won this race. Each thought,
each regret, each promise took the pony further off her pace.
Decima's very humanness was betraying her, sabotaging her frantic
efforts to keep it.
Less than a length separated the two fillies as they boiled
around the far turn. The cinnabar entry gave up her attempt to
maintain the racing pace she was taught. With a little leap,
Decima went into her cross-country form, changing her stride and
swinging her arms in unison with her legs. As she did so the
sulky began to shudder.
The number eight pony's previous stubbornness had caused each of
her wrist cuffs to be tightly chained to the handles of the
sulky, standard treatment for a hard to control "hothead." There
wasn't any slack to allow her arms to move freely. She'd
forgotten that. Her body thrown off kilter, Decima stumbled, her
attempts at recovery hindered by the chains that bound her. Her
legs stretched backwards in a attempt to stay vertical, her boots
losing their purchase on the track. For a second she was poised
as though performing a classical arabesque for the crowd. As it
must, balance bowed to gravity and Decima crashed to the ground,
her knees digging furrows in the cinders as she dangled suspended
from the sulky by her chains.
Cort didn't even need to use the whip. As the cinnabar pony
struggled to regain her footing his filly surged forward as
though her blood were pure adrenaline, the race hers.
In the owner's box, Joey was as fired up as the main pit at a
company barbecue. He'd won, he'd won the Chiron Cup. But, even
as he turned to Dirks, his excitement proved to be as brittle as
thin glass. For there was one horse between Terri and the finish
line, Crowbait.
The back of the "black hood" horse was covered with flowing red
streams from the vicious slashes of her driver's sjambok, each
downward stroke having peeled off another layer of skin and
muscle. Never meant to win the race, the black silk collar around
her neck marked her to hang for the pleasure of the spectators at
the end of the event. Already lapped twice by the rest of the
field, Crowbait was staggering, tasked beyond endurance by what
would be her last race.
Every tug on the traces momentarily tightened the silk,
asphyxiating a body whose lungs were already fighting for each
thin, whistling breath. Bitter tears leaked from her eyes,
descending like raindrops to bathe her crushed soul. Crowbait was
aware of what awaited her, each step taking her closer to the
end.
In a way she welcomed it, the promise of surcease from a life
gone dark and decayed. Once she had been a teacher in high
school. Always good at running, she had even coached the girls
track team. But teaching didn't pay very well and her
perennially out of work father had four other children to
support. A broker looking for talent had seen her at a meet. She
made the mistake of beating her all-state runner in a match race.
A month later the offer he placed before her father more than
tripled what she would earn in a career of teaching. Two days
for the paperwork to clear and she was in a stall, branded and
undergoing her first conversion treatment.
For a time some of her team and her students had come to her
races. She'd even been bred by most of the boys from her English
class while visiting her stable as part of their senior class
trip. By ones and twos they'd taken great delight in violating
every hole she had, several more than once. Some of her students,
much older now, were probably mixed in among the crowd eagerly
anticipating her providing them with a final entertainment,
getting their long sought revenge for her strict classroom
discipline and grading, even if it was by proxy.
Flashes of that earlier existence still haunted her memories.
Knowledge inappropriate for a horse would impinge on her equine
awareness. Even now, slowly shuffling toward the end, her mind
kept repeating a line from Shakespeare's Anthony and Cleopatra
"The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch, which hurts, and is
desired."
Irritated by her slow pace, her driver struck out with the
sjambok, each blow sending up a fountain of red, viscous blood,
blood which flew into Terri's eyes as she passed. Momentarily
blinded by the burning of her eyes and unable to clear them, it
was Terri's turn to stumble.
The curses which came from Cort's mouth were both inventive and
terrible. There was little he could do to help. He was saddled
with a pony who couldn't see to run. "Don't worry about where
you're going. I'll guide you. Just respond to the reins. The
reins," he yelled pulling her back to the right.
Other drivers besides Cort knew to look for the advantage and
take it, including the driver of the number two pony. Seeing
Terri's trouble, he took his shot at what might be his only win
of the day.
Pulling out, he put his tired pony into a full flat-out sprint.
It would either be feast or famine; the effort he was asking of
his pony wouldn't leave her with any reserves. If his pony didn't
cross the finish line ahead of everyone else, it would finish
well out of the money. It was a gamble but sometimes chance
favours the audacious.
The final half furlong of the race was the most exciting of the
meet.
The cobalt blue livery of the number two pony pulled on top,
first by a half and then by a full length. Close behind Terri
tried to let Cort's strong hands on the reins guide her to
victory. But she couldn't stop shaking her head to purify her
eyes, each twitch forcing a small course correction by Cort, each
correction costing them precious ground.
For his part, Cort felt as though he had swallowed a handful of
razor blades. He'd never been faced with this situation before,
driving a sightless pony down the track. His filly was doing as
much as he could ask of her, the key would be whether her flowing
tears diluted the blood enough to give her any vision, even
blurred, before the end of the race.
The two ponies thundered down the homestrech, unaware that Decima
had recovered and, her very existence at stake, was closing in on
the leaders. It was suddenly a three-pony race.
Eyelids feeling as though they were held open by needles, Terri's
sight had begun to return, the pony in front of her represented
by a smudge of blue, a smudge that was becoming more distinct as
the gap was closed.
The yells of the drivers in front and behind of him rang in
Cort's ears. There was nothing he could do now, no trick to pull
out of his bag. It was all resting with his pony.
A burst of light as bright as noon greeted Terri as she crossed
the wire. The tote board told the tale: INQUIRY, INQUIRY, INQUIRY
running in a crawl across its surface.
It took the judges fifteen minutes to decide the order of
finishing; fifteen minutes where the ponies couldn't leave the
track; fifteen minutes that seemed like fifty before the numbers
bloomed incandescently for the crowd to see.
2 - 6 - 8 2 - 6 - 8 2 - 6 - 8 2 - 6 - 8
Working on a farm or a ranch was dangerous. Bad things happened
with frequency and not just to the livestock. Farmhands, at least
the ones who wanted to stay employed, quickly learned to shelve
their emotions and calmly deal with whatever situation presented
itself.
As the blinking numbers seared his eyes, the young owner
discarded his hopes like letters from an old lover. Commanding
his churning stomach to behave, he took a deep breath and
accepted the truth the tote board revealed.
His pony had placed, just a hand's breadth behind the winning
pony. The driver of the blue pony had won his gamble and the race
with it. Decima took the show position, two feet out of second,
two and a half feet away from continuing as a human being.
Dirks turned to Joey who was still staring at the results. "We
could ask for an another inquiry Joseph, even though it was
accidental the blood from the black hood entry did interfere with
your pony. The judges might be inclined to see it that way."
With effort, Joey composed himself and turned to face the stable
manager. "Edmund, you've told me class is winning with a smile,
losing with a grin. I admit it takes a little bit of doing," he
said, the smile of a man with a migraine plastered on his face, "
more than it would if I had won. The fact is that I didn't win.
But I gave it my best effort and that's all I can do."
"Men are ever the sport of circumstance, Joseph. Fate is the
helmsman of the ship of life."
"It's funny, my dad says the very same thing although his version
is a little more compact and earthy."
"Really," asked Dirks, one eyebrow canted into a inverted V.
"What is it your father advises?"
"Shit happens," Joey responded with an almost straight face,
coaxing a laugh like a seal's bark out of his mentor."
"Your father is a wise man, Joseph. He has it exactly right. Shit
does indeed happen. I am just sorry it happened to you this
time."
"Nothing to be sorry about. Like I said, we gave it our best
shot. I just hope I didn't cost you your bet with Mitchell. I'm
sure Tansy'd be sorry if she didn't see you in Tahiti thisyear."
"No worries mate, she'll be right," said Dirks, dropping into an
Australian accent. "Mitchie had Buckley's Chance this year. It's
his shout."
"Edmund, I've never heard you speak anything other than the
proper King's English. What was that?"
"Strine. Tansy's an expatriate shelia from Australia and even
after all these years on Tahiti she still speaks pure strine.
When she feels herself slipping she goes back to Kalgoorlie, her
sister runs a hotel there. It is impossible to spend any
significant amount of time with Tansy without slipping into the
vernacular. Both Mitchell and I speak fairly fluent strine."
This time Joey's smile was warmer and more natural. "Well, I'm
glad you'll have the chance to renew your relationship with
Tansy. I'm literally riding shank's mare on the companion front
for awhile. If I remember right, you said it'd be a day or so
before my ponies would be able to talk again, about a week before
most of the conditioning wore off. That leaves me on my own until
then."
An idea presented itself to Dirks, if Joseph was without company
perhaps he would be open to some socialising with the "horsey"
set.
"Mr. Geryon, there is a traditional dinner and dance which takes
place the evening following the close of the races. For many
years it was a black tie affair as befits the sport of kings.
The less stuffy among us finally convinced the celebration
committee to adapt to our changing times. It is now a more casual
affair, although sports coats and slack are the minimum
acceptable attire for men. I know there will be a number of
unattached ladies at the event tomorrow night. Perhaps even some
semi-attached ladies without escorts. While it is by invitation
only, I can bring a guest. Would you care to attend?"
"Mr. Dirks, I believe I would be delighted. I won't lie to you.
It's been a tense time and I could use a little relaxation."
"Good on ya, mate. That's bonzer. We'll crack a tinnie or two we
will. Maybe root a coupla sheilas too."
An hour after the race results were official Decima Reis' decent
into madness began.
Instead of being returned to the paddock, she was taken directly
into the stables. Already in restraints from the race there was
little she could do to prevent it. Attempts to go limp were
countered by the creative overuse of a cattle prod, as her
handlers found every excuse to wield the electric rod against her
moist flesh.
She found herself guided along a spalled cement passageway, its
craters and crevices filled with straw and dirt. Stalls lined
either side. Some of the occupants turned their heads as she
went by, their eyes full of apprehension and pity. These were the
impermanents, ponies who would regain their human status now that
the race was over and they knew what was awaiting her.
The other occupants paid her little heed. They were true human
equine and had little awareness of Decima's plight.
Two steel doors marked the end of the corridor, one painted
white, the other black. Decima's groom unlocked the white door
and, with a mocking flourish, waved the terrorised girl through.
The entire room was made of concrete, blocks for the wall, smooth
slabs for the floor and ceiling. All were starkly painted in
white as though the chamber had been designed by the set director
for THX 1138. Failing florescent bulbs on the ceiling gave off
flickering illumination adding to the eeriness of the setting.
In the centre of the room was a waist high platform, its top
about 18 inches wide and four feet long. The broad sides of the
platform sloped out from the top some six or seven inches on
their way to floor. A variety of stainless steel rings were
positioned in various locations along the expanse of the
sidewalls.
On one side of the platform stood a white enamelled cart of the
kind often seen in hospital. Its cold surface supported several
jars, various metal and plastic implements, towels and a box of
tissues. On the other side of the platform was an ordinary
charcoal barbecue, the glowing coals inside its basin already
coated with grey.
There was no metal grill on the barbecue, simply a long metal rod
with a Bakelite handle on one end, the opposite end stuck deep
into the coals.
Her face contorted into a devil's mask, Decima tried to scream
but only noise that passed through her vibrating throat sounded
like the rattle of dead grass rustling in a hot August wind. Her
body began to thrash from side to side as she engaged in a final,
desperate attempts to alter her inescapable future.
Uncoiling himself from the corner where he was standing, Travis
Gordon strode over and stood before the struggling girl.
Impassively he watched for a few moments as she tried to tear
herself from the grasp of her captors. At his nod she was
released.
Quick as a snake but with less warning, one stubby hand flew
forward to violently punch Decima in the stomach, his grunt of
exertion matching hers as the air exploded from her body. Even as
the girl battled to fill her empty lungs, Gordon's other hand
grabbed a handful of the girl's hair, yanking her head up with a
force that rolled her eyes back in her head.
Without mercy he smashed his hand across her face, left cheek,
right cheek, left cheek, right cheek. The four callous blows
left Decima dazed, her ears ringing, her mouth spewing out a
mixture of blood and saliva. Releasing his prey, Gordon stood
back as she slumped bonelessly to the floor.
Using a towel from the cart to wipe the blood from his grey skin,
Gordon nodded to himself in satisfaction. This conversion was off
to a good start. He never used drugs on the first day, that was
for amateurs, people who didn't know what they were doing and
wouldn't have the spine to do it if they did. Physical
punishment was the key to breaking their spirit. Beating them
until they gave in made for a better foundation for the
conversion than chemicals did. Besides it was more fun too.
Once again entangling his fingers in her hair, Gordon lifted
upwards, the girl rising like a broken marionette. As she neared
the apogee of her ascent, Gordon's hairy hand flew forward,
burying itself in the folds of her abdomen. With exquisite timing
that bespoke much experience, Gordon dropped her to the floor
seconds before she began to vomit.
Lying in an acrid puddle, tears flowing from her eyes, pain as
she had never felt before coursing through her, Decima could hear
someone droning on above. A sharp kick to her ribs turned her
over on her back, concentrating her attention on the voice. She
just wanted everything to stop.
"Here's the drill. Your days as a person are over. Get used to
it. You're chattel now, just another dumb animal. No rights
whatsoever," he said stopping to give her another kick, this time
to the sole of her foot.
"You're no longer human, you lost that privilege when you lost
the race. You are a possession, mine now while I help you get
your mind right, someone else's once they buy you." He stopped
his speech to place his foot firmly on her forehead.
"I could fracture your skull right now and no one would care. I
could turn you over and hold your face in your puke until you
died and no one would care. You live to obey and you obey to
live. Your only value is in your obedience. If you're
disobedient, you have no value. If you have no value there's no
reason to keep you alive." Gordon took his foot off her face.
"You're lucky even if you don't know it. Things like you usually
end up as meat on someone's table, just another slaughtered cow
that wasn't good for anything else. But you have a little
talent. You can run. With the right training you might make a
halfway decent filly. You'd have to be a hell of a lot more
disciplined then you were today though. Well animal, you've got
one more choice to make, it's literally the last choice you'll
make in your life. Here it is.
"You're going to stand up and hold still while the groom cleans
you up. Then you're going to walk over to the platform. Once
there you will spread your legs and put a foot on each side. The
groom will chain your feet to the walls. When your feet are
secured you're going lay face down on the platform. The groom
will strap you down but your hands will still be free and your
head will be hanging off one end while your ass is hanging off
the other.
"I will walk over and you will take my cock in your mouth. You'll
want to get it as wet as you can because when I take it out of
your mouth I'm going to walk behind you. When I slap your ass
you will reach back with your hands and spread your ass cheeks
apart. Then I'm going to ram my cock up your asshole as hard and
as fast as I can and the only lubrication on my dick will be what
you've put there with your mouth."
"Once I've shot my wad you will continue to hold those cheeks
apart while I brand you. You'll probably pass out once the iron
hits your flesh and that's OK. Flesh that burns when it's branded
doesn't smell anywhere near as delicious as flesh cooking in a
hot oven. When you come to we'll pierce those nipples, put rings
though them, one will have your identity tag and then take you
back to your stall.
"Now you're probably thinking your choice is whether or not to do
this. That's wrong, animal. You will do all of these things.
Your choice is to make things easier on yourself by being a good,
docile obedient animal the first time you're told or to make me
beat you until you become one. Frankly, I hope you decide not to
obey right away. Then I not only get the pleasure of
butt-fucking you, I can get my rocks off a couple of times while
I'm punishing you. That way the butt-fucking lasts even longer.
"Make your choice animal, you've got 30 seconds."
Alone, helpless Decima found her mind had turned to a frigid
Arctic landscape covered with fierce alabaster ice fields,
pitiless whirling storms scouring her identity clean leaving
behind a blank waiting to be imprinted with a new personality.
Obedience would make the pain stop. And she was so tired, tired
of fighting with everyone and everything.
Shattered, the new chattel rose tremblingly to her feet, her time
as a horse truly beginning.
Humming through jaws clenching an evil smelling cigar, Marty
Brune was a happy man. Not only had he won a little at the
window, that black hood horse had put on one hell of a show
twisting and jerking more more than 15 minutes at the end of the
rope as the triple silver bells attached to the silver links
puncturing each of her nipples tolled her death knell.
Even better, Barton let Marty use his extra ticket to take Pete's
step-daughter Patty to the hanging. She enjoyed herself too,
squirming on his lap while Crowbait did the air mambo. Patty was
a cute kid. Thin and still too early for her to have much in the
tits department, although a little hormone-laced feed would help
with that. but that young firm ass of hers was sure sweet.
Best of all was the way she ground it against his crotch while
she watched the hanging. He'd swear she got off a couple of
times by the sounds she was making. Marty knew he did, that pert
butt rubbing on his cock was just too much.
Her step-father had to know Marty got off too. The twisted
half-smile on Pete's face when he saw the spreading stain on the
front of Marty's pants told that tale.
Wonder if Pete's tapping Patty when his wife isn't around. It's
not like she was his real daughter after all. Then there's that
conversion rumour. Have to remember to pick up the phone next
week and sound Barton out on a feeder contract. Could be a.....
Suddenly, with a thumping noise, Brune's car swerved to the
right. Damn, I've probably got a puncture he thought as he
brought the car to a halt. One quick glance was enough to confirm
his suspicion. Sure enough, the right front tire was flatter than
a fashion model's tits.
His pudding face red from the exertion of changing the tire,
Brune resumed his drive home. Within a few minutes the thumping
sound returned. The sight of his second flat of the night
affected the uber-butcher like a stone thrown into a hornet's
nest.
He called down curses on the tire company for making shitty tires
that blow out if you even look at them; the auto manufacturer for
only having one spare tire for the car, didn't they know the
cheap tires they put on the car demanded they provide more than
one spare and the phone company for not putting a phone box at
every crossroads.
Still muttering imprecations into the evening sky, Brune started
the long walk back to town.
Terri rose to the creaking of the neighbouring stall door as it
slid open. During her time at Kyner Stables the
lubrication-deficient door had become her morning alarm. She
went though her daily routine, stretching to relax stiff and
tender muscles, standing on tiptoe to gaze through the bars on
her window.
Outside her stall the rising sun was just cresting over the
horizon, a hint of chilly dawn still lingering in the air. Clouds
pink and dusty danced across the sky. Familiar sounds greeted
her ears, the snapping of leather, the jingling of metal, the
soft cries of the ponies and the harder, more insistent commands
of their trainers. Kyner Stables was waking up.
As she had been trained, the young filly stood next to her door
awaiting its opening. She wore the standard workout livery for
Kyner Stables, a simple outfit composed of loose fitting smock
and shorts in a drab shade of poppy.
But this day was different. On this day the door would not open
with the others. No handlers would come for Terri. There would be
no morning workout in the exercise yard, no soothing massage
afterwards.
Standing there Terri was puzzled. Was her master mad at her? Had
she failed him? What was wrong? How could she make it right?
Then she remembered, her time as a horse was coming to a close.
The question was, does it have to?
Searching her soul as she had never done before, Terri Gudman
realised nothing she has done in her life; nothing she has had
done to her; has given her as much pleasure, joy, and fulfilment
as the last few weeks had.
For years, in situation after situation, she never really
believed that she belonged. Instead she thought of herself as a
clown at the ballet, a jazz clarinettist in a symphony orchestra,
a shadow without a body.
Fragmentary, incomplete and unfinished, Terri had sought
fulfilment through many avenues, work, marriage, sport fucking.
Until now all had left her empty, kept her yearning for something
more, something solid and real.
This was that something.
Being under the guidance and protection of a strong master, one
who saw her beauty and worth, had made her complete. She would
die before she gave that up.
Suffused with happiness, Terri choose her life as a horse.
---------------------------------
The question: The "Our story so far" segment has become
excessively long, running almost two pages. Should this feature
be continued?
The invitation: Several secondary characters are based on readers
of C4H. (You all know who you are, both in real life and in the
saga.) If you are interested in appearing in fictional guise in a
later episode of C4H, please drop me a line to discuss it.
(agp_millie, keep reading.)
Again, thanks to most of you for your patience andencouragement.
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