My name is Michel, I’m French and I’m not a girl, I have to say that as several English natives do think that Michel is a girl’s name, it could be, but under a different spelling (Michèle or Michelle). Anyway, I’m known as an expert in computer problems and I frequently act as a "computer fireman" or "computer raider", which leaves me lots of free time and extremely good fees when I’m working. I was living in the north-east part of France for several years until I decided that the North Pole was somewhere around Montelimar, and so then I decided to move away from it. I choose Nice on the French Riviera. I have a nice secluded house on a hill above Nice with a breathtaking view of the Mediterranée. The portion of land where I live was part of a huge property divided into smaller ones in order to build several houses in the middle of the last century. Therefore I’ve got neighbors who started to become friends several months ago. We were enjoying parties all together, and that’s where I learned about kinky people; some of my neighbors being strongly involved into the so-called BDSM world. I was shocked at first, certainly upset, but I started to enjoy looking at a submissive woman in the act.
At the beginning of April last year, I was working in Paris on a corrupted database, with half of the company going on technical strike because they could not use their applications. You can imagine the stress (definitely not a positive one). I’d worked 35 hours straight until the problem was solved. It was late Friday evening when I reached my hotel, anticipating a shower and a bed. I’m not an addict of Murphy’s Law, but anyway it’s always when you most want something that you get all the tricks and traps that make you want to be somewhere else. As it should be, I met my closest neighbor, Marc, in the entrance of the hotel. He nearly jumped on me stammering that there were two things I had to see in order to be more educated in the kinky world. The first one was a show in a BDSM club ending very early the next Saturday morning, where Marc was involved as a cat trainer or horse-breaker (the cat or the horse being a girl). I’ve got to admit I dozed, I can only remember flashes of tits, whipped buttocks, moans, MOANS, GROANS...I felt like I still had enough time in the future to perfect my BDSM education.
Marc woke me around 7 AM; the club was empty, and he was asking me about my impressions while I was still dreaming about a shower, a bed and now a strong black coffee without sugar.
He and I climbed into a waiting taxi north to Paris (in fact in between Paris and Compiègne) into what he called the Resort. You can imagine what state I was in when we arrived at the place. We left the taxi and went by foot through a gate like the one you can find in Versailles.
But I can tell you that I was fully awake, alert and openmouthed when a sulky met us. The sulky, in fact, was like a normal sulky with two wheels, a seat and a small platform. But it was pulled by four naked girls harnessed like ponies, with tails and hoods with feathers. The woman on the sulky seat asked us, with a smile, if we cared for a ride. The only thing I could do was to nod eagerly. We jumped onto the small platform behind the sulky.
The woman driving the sulky cracked her whip over the ponies’ heads, and we started our journey to the castle, which was the masterpiece of the Resort. I was impressed both by the view of those bare wiggling asses and tails, and by the speed we reached.
The gate was about one kilometer away from the castle, and we were there in approximately five minutes. I have to say that I’ve traveled a lot around the world, but this trip was the best I’d ever had.
The ponies were panting from exhaustion and so I had the time to get a closer look. The harnesses were made of leather straps making some kind of a bra, other straps joined the bra and a belt and there was also a strap going from the front of the belt through their legs up to the back of the belt. Marc told me that the tails were in fact attached to a butt plug. (A BUTT PLUG, I thought that an anus is made to expel things not to be plugged!!!! ?????).
The ponies were lined having their bellies against a wooden rod attached by two perpendicular rods to the sulky. The rod against their bellies was locked to the ponies via a larger leather belt lined with some kind of fur, effectively attaching each pony to the sulky. The ponies’ arms were in arm binders, also in leather and one could see that their elbows were touching each other, making their breasts thrust out of the leather mesh of straps. On each nipple there was a small bell attached by a small wire tightened around the nipple. It was the first time I’d seen eight firm boobs with deep purple long nipples.
A hood covered the ponies’ scalps hiding their hair, but in front it was open and the hood looked more like some kind of harness. The ponies had blinders allowing them only to look at their feet and a huge bit was widely splitting their mouths. A pair of reins was attached to each bit. And the four pairs of reins were loosely handled by the driver.
The ponies were wearing knee boots, some kind of riding boots but laced, with large heels of about 4 cm. high.
I dared not to touch one of them, I was just looking, and my brain in turmoil, hoping it was not a mirage. I watched until the ponies regained their composure and Marc asked me to come with him to the barns on the left of the castle.
Marc was here for business, he wanted to by a pony, not a real one but a pony girl, and he was here to choose one. To say the least, I was astonished. Slavery for me was history, and even if the mafia is still trading women in the world, it is a crime and even in France it is against the laws, and therefore punished with several years behind bars in a jail.
Marc laughed at my comments and explained me the trick. In fact all the girls were "volunteers" (in quotes, because what follows makes me think differently about the word volunteer).
In fact all the girls came from aristocratic or related families having both young girls and money problems. A buyer, like Marc, had to pay in French francs, at that time, the equivalent of 1 million Euros. The girl had to sign a contract for four years, and each year the buyer has to pay the girl 250 thousands Euros.
So, now as part of my education I knew the meaning of volunteering in the kinky world and that being a pony girl is not a bad job at all.
The Resort was the place where the ponies were trained after being bought and before they were delivered to their owner. The Resort is held by an old gentle lady named Emilie (Mistress Emilie), who’s taking her percentage on the whole affair, and also providing after sale commodities like, physician, psychiatrist, etc. During the contract between the buyer and a girl, she also supervises that the girl is not permanently injured either physically or mentally.
Marc was explaining all of that during our walk to the barns. Of course I was not paying attention to my surroundings, and I nearly bumped into a woman.
She was beautiful, stunning to say the least, wearing a beige Chanel-like suit with a conservative knee length skirt and riding boots. She was tall 1m75, having shoulder length black hair, in her early thirties, aloof, haughty, with an aristocratic arrogance. I apologized, but she only responded with a look of disdain. She looked like the perfect bitch you want to spank right here right now, just to teach her a lesson of savoir vivre.
Marc told me that she was the supervisor of the ponies’ trainers and her name was Nadine. She was the third daughter of a ruined aristocratic family, she was too old to be "sold" as a pony; she had never worked, so she was making some money at the Resort.
After this brief encounter, we met Emilie at the barn doors. She was all smiles; with the look of a queen, she welcomed us warmly. I instantly felt like one of her friends. She told us, that unfortunately, there were no ponies in the barns, as they were all trained outdoors, and as Marc was here for business, it would be better done in the main lounge of the castle with some drinks.
During our walk to the lounge, she asked me about my job, my earnings and my interests in the kinky world and also if I was a potential "buyer".
Just recall in what state I was in: no sleep or nearly none; unshaved; not showered; and in addition I’m in my late forties, which means that when I look bad, I really look bad. I therefore had to explain why I was in such a state and of course I had to apologize profusely for being here in front of her like that. She took my arm and said that it was unimportant as long as I was enjoying my stay in her Resort.
We went into the main lounge of the castle, I will not describe it, but it was incredibly huge and filled with antiques. Marc and I were standing, (never take a seat before all the women in the room are seated), and she asked us about the drinks we wanted. She proposed tea, wine and pure malt, Marc took a dry whisky and I asked for a tea. She then rang a small bell, and a maid entered the lounge. I was again openmouthed; no, she was not wearing a French maid’s uniform (I think that these uniforms are just exported in USA, as I’ve never seen one in France), she was wearing a long black satin dress. I should have said she was un-wearing a long black satin dress. In fact the dress was split all its length, like a robe, and just tiny straps were retaining the parts of the robe. You can’t say that you could see her cleavage, as you could see her nipples connected, through her nipple rings, with a small silver chain. She had something shiny and metallic where her sex should have been, and she was hobbled, taking only tiny steps, with a strong chain connected to ankle cuffs. Her hands were also cuffed to the sides of her waist belt (when she left the room I saw that her elbows were strapped tightly one against the other, that’s certainly why her breasts were jutting like that in front of her) and she was carrying a small tray. She was a redhead (no, not all the French girls are redheads, but this one was), and she had a big black rubber ball in her mouth, strangely she was not drooling, Marc explained me later, that her mouth was stuffed with napkins pushed into her throat by the ball gag. Is it the reason why she had such wide eyes with dilated pupils, (like the President Bush when he eats pretzels in front of his TV set?)
She took the order from Emilie and went out. Emilie then sat, so Marc and I sat in unison.
Emilie then asked me again if I was a potential buyer. I had to explain that even if a pony girl is a beautiful sight, it was not my cup of tea for two reasons: first, I felt too old to be with a post-teenager and second, it was not my fantasy.
When the maid came back with our drinks, Emilie was asking me about my kinky fantasy, I don’t know if it was the entrance of this nearly naked maid, or if it was the "in the nude" stories, Marc had asked me to read at Leviticus’ web site to perfect my education, I still don’t know, but at that time I told her that I was into enforced nudity.
She looked puzzled and asked me what that was. In the meantime, Marc was taking the drinks off the maid’s tray, pouring a glass of a chilled white Sancerre for Emilie, taking his glass of whisky, and putting on the table a tea pot and a cup. Emilie was bending forward to pour my tea, when I answered her. I said just imagine yourself in the nude right here in front of two clothed men doing what you are doing now in the position you have presently. She blushed, I’ve never seen an old woman blush, but I can tell you that under her clothes she was warm and certainly hot too. Regaining her composure, she sat back and I did not have to explain more about enforced nudity; because the way she had reacted was enough to tell her what kind of fantasy it was.
I could see that Emilie was interested; she was like a cat in front of a canary (before eating the canary). She asked about the kind of girl I would need for my fantasy. Why I gave her the following answer, again I don’t know, but here it is:
"It MUST be a bitch, the more arrogant she is, the better it is. Someone like Nadine would fit perfectly well my fantasy".
She looked sharply and straight into my eyes and asked, "Do you really want to buy Nadine?"
Why I answered yes, don’t ask me. I was still in the need of a shower and a bed and her orange pekoe Darjeeling was definitely not a replacement for a strong black Italian coffee.