PUBLIC TENTS
IN THE early evening, I was a pony again, safe in my harnesses, thinking almost sardonically of my trepidation the night before when the tail and the bit had seen such unthinkable humiliations. We reached the manor house before dark, and I was singled out to be made a footstool for my master for hours beneath the dining table.
The conversation was long. Others were there, rich merchants and farmers of the town, talking of crops and weather and the price of the slaves, and the undeniable fact that the village needed more slaves, not just the fine, often temperamental little lovelies from the castle, but solid lesser Tributes who need not ever see the Queen, the sons and daughters of petty nobles under her protection. Such slaves did come from time to time, right to auction in the marketplace. Why couldn’t there be more?
My Master was fairly quiet all the time. I started living and breathing for the sound of his voice. But he laughed at this last suggestion and asked dryly, “And who would like to demand that of her Majesty?”
I listened to every word, gleaning, not so much knowledge I did not possess before, but an increased sense of my lowliness. They told little stories about bad slaves, punishments, common events they thought humorous. And it was as if none of the slaves serving the table or those used as footstools like myself had ears or sense, or need be given the slightest consideration.
Finally it was time to go.
With a bursting cock, I took my place to pull the coach back to the town house, wondering if the other ponies had been satisfied as usual in the stable.
And when we reached the village, and the ponies were sent off, my Mistress started to whip me on the short barefoot journey along the dark road to the Place of Public Punishment.
I started crying, weary and desperate from the exertions and the starvation of my loins. The Mistress wielded the strap more vigorously than had the Master. And I was deviled mercilessly by the realization that it was she behind me, in her lovely dress, driving me on with that little hand. The day seemed infinitely longer than the one before it, and whatever I’d felt earlier about welcoming the Public Turntable, I was now in frantic fear of it. My fear was worse than last night. I knew what it was to be whipped there. The Master’s affection after seemed like some absurd flight of imagination.
But it wasn’t the busy Maypole circle for me, or the brilliantly illuminated turntable.
I was driven through the flowing crowd, into one of the small tents behind the pillories. My Mistress paid ten pence at the entrance and then drew me after her into the shadows.
A naked Princess with long gleaming copper-colored braids squatted on a stool, knees wide, ankles bound together, her hands tethered to the tent pole high above her. She worked her hips desperately when she heard us come in, but her eyes were bound with a red silk blindfold.
When I saw the soft, sweet, moist sex glinting in the torchlight from the square, I thought I could no longer control myself.
I bowed my head, wondering what torment I should know now, but my Mistress said very gently that I was to rise.
“I’ve paid ten pence for you to have her, Tristan,” she said.
I could scarce believe my ears. I turned first to kiss the Mistress’s shoes, but she only laughed and told me to stand up and enjoy the girl as I wished.
I started to obey, but I stopped, my head still bowed, the grasping little sex right before my own, realizing that my Mistress stood very near watching. She even stroked my hair. And I understood I was to be looked at, even studied.
I gave a little shudder all over. And when I resigned myself to it, a new ingredient heightened my excitement. My cock darkened all the more and bobbed as if trying to pull me forward.
“Slowly, if you like,” said my Mistress. “She’s lovely enough to play with.”
I nodded. The Princess had an exquisite little mouth, red shuddering lips that gave little gasps now of apprehension and anticipation. It could have been better only if Beauty were kneeling there.
I kissed the Princess violently, my hands greedily clutching her heavy little breasts and bouncing them and massaging them. She went into a paroxysm of longing. Her mouth sucked at mine, her body straining forward, and I lowered my head to suck at her breasts one by one, as she cried, her hips swaying wildly. It was almost too much to wait longer.
But I circled her, running my hands over her gorgeous buttocks, and as I pinched her little welts, very small welts really, she gave a lovely inviting moan and arched her back to show me her tender red sex from the rear as best she could, straining the rope that held her hands above her.
That was how I wanted to take her, her vagina from the rear, stabbing upwards, lifting her, and when I slid in, her tight little sex seemed almost too small and she gave loud gasps as I forced my way into the hot wet depth of her.
Her cries took on a despair. She was being well used, but her little *oris wasn’t being touched by my cock, I knew, and I wasn’t going to disappoint her. I reached around her, finding the little core under its hood of wet skin, parting her plump lips a little roughly, and when I pinched the *oris, she gave a sharp grateful cry, rocking her smooth little buttocks back against me.
My Mistress drew close. Her broad full skirts stroked my leg, and I felt her hand under my chin. It was agony to realize she was looking at me and would see my reddened face at the moment of climax.
But it was my lot. And an exultation swept me up right in the middle of the pleasure. I felt the Mistress’s hand on my buttocks. I rammed the little Princess all the harder, feeling my Mistress’s gaze, and caressed the wet * with sharp rhythmic pressure.
My cock burst as I gritted my teeth, my face burning hot, my hips jerking helplessly. A long low groan was torn out of my chest. The Mistress held my head in her hands. And my breath came in loud relieved gasps, the little Princess crying with the same ecstasy.
I leaned forward, embracing the warm little body, and laid my head against the Princess’s head, turning to face my Mistress. I felt her soothing fingers on my hair. And her eyes fixed me steadily. She had a strange expression, thoughtful, almost penetrating. She turned her head a little to the side as if she were weighing some conclusion. And she put her hand on my shoulder to let me know I should stay still, embracing the Princess, and she whipped at my buttocks with the belt as I looked at her. I closed my eyes. But I opened them immediately again, smarting under the strap. And the oddest moment passed between us.
If I was saying something silent it was, “You are my Mistress. You own me. And I will not look away until you tell me to. I will look into what you are and what you do.” And she seemed to hear this and to be fascinated.
She stood back and let me remain long enough to collect my strength. I kissed the little Princess’s neck.
And then very tentatively I went down on my knees and kissed my Mistress’s feet and the end of the strap hanging from her hand.
The little Princess had not been enough for me. My cock was already rising. I could have taken every proffered slave in every tent. And for one desperate moment I was tempted to kiss my Mistress’s shoes again and wriggle my hips to tell her this. But the sheer vulgarity of it was beyond me. Besides, she might only have laughed and whipped me. No, I had to wait upon her will. And it seemed to me that in these two days, I had not failed, truly failed, in anything. I would not fail now either.
She sent me out into the square, the strap caressing me in the usual fashion. And her lovely little hand pointed to the bath stalls.
I glanced up at the Public Turntable, half afraid I might give her some idea by doing so, but unable not to look at it. An olive-skinned Princess I did not know was the victim, her black hair mounded on her head, her long, lusciously full body snapping under the cracking paddle without fetters. She looked splendid, her dark eyes narrowed and wet, her mouth open in wild cries. She seemed to be yielding utterly. The crowd danced and whooped, cheering her on. And before we reached the bath stall I saw her showered with coins as I had been.
While I was being bathed, one of the handsomest Princes I had ever beheld, Prince Dmitri from the castle, was taking his turn on the Public Turntable. And my cheeks stung with shame for him when I saw him bound down at the knees and at the neck, hands laced as the crowd scolded him. He sobbed over his leather gag and bridled under the paddling.
But my Mistress had seen me looking at the turntable and with a stab of panic I turned my eyes down.
And I kept them that way as I was driven home at a march along the back road and into the household.
Now I shall sleep in some dim corner somewhere, I thought, bound and perhaps even gagged. It’s late and my cock is an iron rod between my legs and my Master is probably sleeping.
But I was being coaxed down the hall. I saw the light under his door. And knocking on the door, my Mistress smiled. “Good-bye, Tristan,” she whispered and played with a little lock of my hair before leaving me there.