Ponyboy Pain Slave
Tight ropes cut into his body. He had knelt for hours. Involuntary Immobility was pure physical torturer. His muscles and joints ached.
He heard the clicks of a woman’s heels. Then a girlish, derisive voice.
“Hello horsy. Time for my daily ride.”
Mistress Füchsin yanked his bridle. Would snap his neck? Often violent, men quickly learned to fear her.
She did not purposely kill men. Deaths were accidents. A company removed unmourned corpses. Incinerated remains joined fast food wrappers and cigarette butts.
“I bought a new pair of spurs. Just for you.”
Thrusting her right boot, she shoved him down. Mistress Füchsin straddled his back. Sat on his already strained arms.
Three quick tugs on the bridle. The burning agony of his neck spread to his upper back.
His whole body racked with pain, he did not believe Mistress Füchsin could do more.
Her spurs grazed against his thighs and buttocks. Long withheld tears fell. He moaned.
“Poor horsey.” She laughed.
Her spurs cut skin. Moved them up and down and twisted. He bled.
Desperately, he tried to scream through the gag. More futility and frustration.
Mistress Füchsin grabbed his hair. Clawed his forehead. Bit an ear.
The long trip to nowhere continued. Much later, body wrenched, mind awash in anguish, his brain shut down.
A servant took him to the barn. Chained him to a stall’s wall. Forced food down his throat and cleaned his wounds.
A healthy man properly maintained, his Mistress Owner would ride him often.