The Ponygirl Polo Match

CHAPTER 1: GOING DOWN

Whipped Cream claimed that a good centre attack pony at the Buenos Aires PonyGirl Polo Club can hear the ball as it falls towards the centre spot at the start of a chukka and can thus anticipate the moment her player will set her to the gallop with the whip. When pony and player are in perfect harmony, the ball is as good as won. In the stillness the before the game as the referee throws out the ball for what is know as 'The Drop' I can almost believe it as every player, pony and spectator seems to hold their breath with anticipation of the explosive action to follow.

The sound of the bounce comes a fraction of a second too late to be of any use to a harnessed, bridled and hooded pony girl. The decision of when to move is thus up to the player driving her but the pony must be poised, ready for the off...must 'know'.

If the bounce was audible, I didn't hear it and I very much doubt my pony did either; when I saw the scuff of dirt as the ball struck earth I laid the whip across Bryony's buttocks and she lurched forward in an explosion of adrenaline; within five metres she was half way to full gallop, by ten she was there with matching red welts forming a V-shape across her straining buttocks.

Eighty yards away and closing, The-Cat-That-Got-The-Cream was racing towards us with equal fervor, driven on by her mistress, Whipped Cream.

*

It's hard to express the exhilaration of driving a well trained pony girl, watching as she strains in harness in front of you blind, helpless and obedient; her body perfectly honed and utterly under your control; and if that wasn't enough, there's the visceral thrill of the acceleration and the connection to her through the harness and reins; the creak of tack, thundering hooves (ok, I exaggerate), jingling harness clips; the smell of sweat and leather; the kiss of the whip on bare flesh.

Sometimes, it's better than sex.

Bryony is certainly a well trained pony girl. I know this because I trained her myself.

The fact that she's also small and pert with a mane of red hair (which I'm glad to say had grown back over the year I'd since my first race with her) and intensely submissive are just the icing on the very rich and beautiful cake that life has recently cut me a slice of.

Who says a man can't have his cake an eat it!

It helps that Bryony is a superb athlete; determined, focussed and very, very fit (in every sense of the word). She's a pretty fair sprinter though middle distance would be her forte if she competed in more conventional events. Most importantly, for pony girl racing and, indeed PonyGirl Polo, she has strong legs (I know; as well as seeing her perform, I've had them wrapped round me enough times) and a gritty determination so that, even encumbered by my weight in the chariot her acceleration and stamina are impressive.

Of course, having me whipping the hell out of her arse as I drove her towards that ball was a pretty good incentive too.

*

Tearing my eyes away from my beautiful pony, I looked up; we were a little over twenty yards out from the ball and I could see The-Cat pounding towards us; hooded, harnessed, bridled and clearly just as determined as Bryony to get her driver, or 'player' as Cream called us, to the ball first. 'The-Cat-That-Got-the-Cream' was taller than Bryony, giving her longer strides but she was younger, her body less toned, lacking Bryony's wiry strength and, while the Goose had done a pretty thorough job training her in Cream's absence, the blonde wasn't a match Bryony. I was thus disappointed to see that, as we closed to within about ten yards, The-Cat and her Cream were a little closer to the ball than us.

The girls had a slight downhill advantage but even uphill they seemed to beat us and I couldn't for the life of me work out what to do about it. The reason they beat us to the ball was simple, Whipped Cream (I'll tell you the story of her name later) had been playing PonyGirl Polo for six months with the best team (The Caballeras Azuls) in one of the top competitions the world (The Buenos Aires PonyGirl Polo Club) even if I hadn't heard of them until two months ago. The delightfully perky blonde knew just when, where and how to drive her equally delightful, perky blonde pony and, try as I might, I just couldn't get the same level of performance out of Bryony.

My beloved pony might be the undisputed champion of the mares' race but polo was a different thing entirely.

We were just under ten yards apart, both still lashing our ponies to keep them at full gallop as we bore down on the ball when The-Cat turned.

Convention dictates that, players pass the ball to their right hand sides allowing the first player to reach it to scoop it up with her (players are usually girls and, usually, just as pert as their ponies) dominant hand. This, however, is only convention. Cream, it appeared, had decided to go left or, perhaps, I realised with a jolt, just slam her pony straight into us.

PonyGirl Polo is very much a contact sport.

*

It is, at this point, probably time to say a little more about PonyGirl Polo. It is played by teams of four (just as conventional polo) using a ball about the size of a football. The ponies are, obviously, two legged and pull gigs that resemble para-Olympians' wheelchairs, small and compact and very light; with shorter shafts than the standard 'Mares' chariot. The shorter shafts put the player quite close to the ponies and they thus use shorter whips. Ponies are driven hooded meaning that all tactics are entirely the remit of the player but rely on the athletic prowess of the pony and, of course, complete connection between player and pony.

As in 'Mares' pony racing, polo ponies are guided by reins that are either fastened to the bits of their bridles or to nipple rings. Good control and, especially steering, requires two hands but the whip is used frequently to augment this meaning most players hold the reins in the left hand while the right hand is used for the whip. When they play the ball, most players will put the reins in their teeth and transfer the whip to the left hand, using their right to play the ball.

The Polo harnesses we were using were, Cream told us, in the traditional style, simple affairs like dressage ones, strapped around the shoulders and chest and typically restraining to pony with her elbows behind her and her hands, safely protected in mitts, strapped to the side of her chest just below her breasts. Elbow straps are often used in this arrangement too to keep the elbows from swinging out and potentially causing injury (they also make a ponygirl's tits stick out beautifully).

This arrangement leaves the lower half of her body, down to the tops of her boots at least, completely bare and thus an open target for the whip which, being short and light, is used frequently and intensely. In Argentina, where the sport grew up, disobedient daughters and even wives were once sent to the polo stables for a few months to teach them to behave and, once aware of the full incentive a whip could provide they soon became completely obedient to it. Whips were heavier then and, sometimes, barbed too so, needless to say, it was a pretty brutal lesson and, I understood, it was not unusual for a girl to turn an ankle or even break a leg in her determination to obey the whip of her player or trainer.

The lighter pony whips of today are made of a handle with a long stiff section and a short leather blade, unlike the carriage whip I was used to driving Bryony with when I raced her; though, of course, some polo players knot the leather blade to increase its effectiveness. Injuries are less common too although this is probably because modern polo ponies wear boots with strong ankle and, usually, knee supports too, protecting them from the thigh downward, not only from the frequent twists and turns but also from the impact of other ponies and chariots. In these modern times, serious injuries are less common than they once were, with a broken limb occurring, according to Cream, rarely more than five or six times a season in any given stable.

*

We were about to collide.

The-Cat was still running towards us at full tilt, utterly oblivious to the course set by Cream and utterly obedient in following it. Her hooded head was drawn back and, as we closed, I could see the saliva spraying out around her bit and flecking the front of her hood as she panted hard from the exertion. She might not be in the same class as Bryony but she was an impressive pony, lithe and strong, the muscles of her belly and thighs toned, clearly defined like any good athlete; her breasts small and neat, jutting in front of her in the little black leather cones of her harness, supporting them but leaving her nipples exposed. She ran with long confident strides, her blonde mane flashing in the evening sunlight where it streamed out of the back of her hood and the buckles of her harness glittering. We were so close, I could see her brown nipples bra, stiff and erect, no doubt from exhilaration but also from the way they were being jerked around by the gold piercing rings to which her reins were clipped.

These were the triple piercings of a polo pony; Cream had a set too. Although, much of her time in Argentina had been spent in the chariot (or 'gig' as polo players described it) Cream had also played as a pony and even had a black horse's head with a blue bridle and plume tattooed on her shoulder; the mark of the Caballeras Azuls. Her's didn't have the gold ring around it; good as she was, Cream had only been there for one season; she'd only played for the second team.

Needless to say, after talking about her exploits on her return, it hadn't taken much to persuade the village girls to give the sport a try.

Faced with her skill, the fact she was ahead of us and the fact that I really didn't want my pony getting injured I reluctantly tugged on the reins pulling Bryony to the side and giving up on my claim to the ball.

It was close though; the ponies missed each other by inches passing so close I'd swear both girls turned their heads towards each other as they almost brushed past shoulder to shoulder. For a moment, I thought the wheels of our chariots were going to catch but, scooping the ball with a cry of triumph, Cream, leant hard to her right and her chariot rolled up onto one wheel, bumping over the axle of my own as she sped past grinning insanely, The-Cat running on unchecked.

There was nothing I could do but wheel Bryony round and head back towards our own goal line as Cream, the reins tucked between her teeth looked to her left and right where Reuben and Goose were encouraging their ponies to keep pace with their team's attacker.

There is, of course, 'no 'I' in team' as squad coaches tirelessly and tediously remind everyone and, even as Cream sped on, our hustler, Charles steered Barbie to block her path. As dressage competitors, Charles and his pony, were probably best in the number two, 'hustler', spot; attacking to win the ball in skirmishes when needed and manouvreable enough to tackle effectively if needed.

I watched Cream draw her head back, using the reins as best she could to signal The-Cat to slow. Reuben and Rubber Dolly were being marked by our number three, quarterback, Claire who was already turning Dirty Dancer to block anything but a good high throw. This mean't it was my job to mark 'The Goose'.

*

Over the year I'd spent in Mares-de-Launce, I'd grown quite fond of the 'Loose Goose'. She wasn't popular among the village girls which probably had something to do with her character and the fact she spent several nights a week, sometimes longer away from the village. She worked in London as an investment account manager and was, judging by the old manor house she'd bought and had renovated, clearly very good at it. The 'Loose' was something of an ironic addition to her name; Goose was organised to the point of obsession, something which apparently didn't endear her to the girls in the village but which I understood perfectly and respected. Goose was a fair choice for her name if a rather cruel one; she was a little awkward, tall and angular and, if was being really mean I would add that she had a pretty big nose.

Mannerisms and appearance aside; the Goose was a serious competitor. She could run in harness and had come third one year in the mares' race but, at some point, she'd clearly made the decision to move into the chariot and when Cream had left the village for her gap year, the Goose had pounced on the The-Cat who, much to everyone's surprise, had rolled over and embraced the advances of her new knight.

It wasn't long before the Goose approached me for some advice and, a few weeks later we were training side by side, literally, sometimes with Bryony and The-Cat harnessed together in the village's double chariot. It worked out well for me as, like the Goose, I had commitments out of the village which potentially left Bryony on her own for a week or two at a time and, while it was possible for her to train on her own, I was happier knowing someone was keeping an eye on her.

Of, course, I hadn't realised at that stage quite how much a rather predatory dominatrix the Goose was; if I had, I might have thought twice about leaving my beloved in bondage with her. Bryony certainly never said anything and besides, I told myself, the Goose had her 'Pussy' to play with and, by all accounts, play with her she did. The-Cat was deeply submissive; she and Goose were a match made in heaven or would have been if Whipped Cream had not eventually returned.

*

Just before Cream's return, Goose and The-Cat had taken second place in the Mares' race, giving Bryony a run for her money but then Cream had come back and, almost overnight, the Goose lost her paramour. Although she'd shrugged when I consoled her, she'd clearly been upset even if she had known it was coming.

Then, not long after, she'd taken up with Pretty Little Thing and Goose's world had been right again. Looking back, I think the pretty little blonde, just turned nineteen, had been biding her time, waiting for the moment to pounce herself. For all her girl next door charms and world conquering smile PLT knew what she wanted and how to get it. If she'd been that way inclined, she'd have been one of those girls that the guys cluster around but, in Mares, its is fair to say that pussy munching appeared to be very much the norm as well as, of course, kinky equestrian sports.

In some ways, PLT was almost a replacement for the The-Cat; blonde and pert though probably slightly smaller and still with a hint of adolescent fat that smoothed her curves. (The first time I'd seen her in action, I'd been convinced she was too young to race).

It was Goose and her pretty little plaything I was now chasing down the field, whipping Bryony hard to catch them before Cream passed the ball.

Once again, I was too late, only able to watch as the Goose neatly turned Pretty Little Thing a fraction of a second before she caught the ball pointing her towards Tom our number four where he and Cassie waited in front of the goal. They were still thirty yards from the line and, for all the perky little blonde's youthful enthusiasm, Bryony was already at full tilt and faster in the sprint.

I went in for the tackle, Bryony gaining ground quickly as I used the whip to drive her hard.

With the reins in her teeth, the Goose, couldn't turn Pretty Little Thing easily and, as Charles drove Barbie forward to force Cream and The-Cat to go wide, it looked like I might be able to atone for my earlier failing.

I caught them and, for a moment enjoyed the exhilaration of the two ponies running side by side; then I reached over to snatch the ball.

In response, Goose leant back and jerked her head tugging on the reins that were firmly clamped between her teeth.

Pretty Little Thing skidded to an almost instant stop and, before I could respond Goose had tossed the ball to Kevin (the pub landlord) who drove Salty Petals past on my inside and flipped it over Cassie's head to Cream who tossed it into the goal.

***

CHAPTER 2: BEST MAN

***

The game continued in pretty much the same way for all six chukkas. We were roundly beaten by nine points to three.

'Cheer up, Mike.' Cream slapped me on the back as I lead Bryony back to Tom's yard where we stored the chariots he'd knocked up for us. 'You can't win 'em all.'

'Yeah, Mike.' Goose said from her other side. 'May be you should hire a coach or something. She was walking Pretty Little Thing beside her, reins in her right hand holding the little blonde close (PLT, as she was known, was still unpierced so used a conventional bridle) and was caressing the girl's lovely bottom which, like the other ponies' was covered in red welts.

'Very funny, Goose.' I gave Bryony's reins a firm jerk and started walking ahead of the group.

Anywhere else, we would have made quite a scene, twelve players leading twelve semi-naked, harnessed and hooded women (reserves included) all hitched to little wheeled carts surrounded by a dozen or so onlookers who'd been cheering us on during our practice game.

As evenings went in Mares-de-Launce, it was pretty much business as usual even if we had obtained permission from the committee to 'sport tack in the village'.

It was, however, something of a shock to my mate Justin who, in the excitement of the game, I'd completely forgotten was coming. He made a slightly comical sight, standing outside the village pub, the Mare in Hand (it's sign restored to one of the four legged variety after the recent Mares' race) with a very surprised look on his face before glancing down at his pint to see how it had been tampered with.

Justin was my best mate and, about six months after I met Bryony I felt it was time to introduce them so I started to tell him about the somewhat unusual activities that took place in Mares-de-Launce. Despite my persistence, he'd dismissed it as a wind-up and when I showed him some (rather tame by her standards) pictures of Bryony and some of the other mares, he'd suggested I make sure I delete my browsing history on a regular basis. I'm not sure if Bryony's work as a part time fetish model helped or hindered the process; if he'd have been aware of 'Redd Hott' (her model name) then I could see how he might get the wrong end of the stick.

However, now he was here, and I was glad of the excuse to peel off from the others, still leading Bryony by her reins. As I approached, I gave him a friendly wave. To his credit, he recovered himself enough to put down his pint and walk towards us though he was openly staring at the pert harnessed redhead following me obediently (the reins were, after all, attached to her nipples) and still harnessed to the chariot.

'Mike!' He managed to tear his eyes of my fiance. 'Err...' Justin was rarely lost for words. 'The taxi dropped me at the house...you...er, weren't there...' His eyes drifted back to Bryony as she stood beside me, in her, polo harness, little more than one of those bras you can see on fetish sites that are simply an arrangement of leather straps, her wrists cuffed to the side of the strap that circled her chest under her pert little breasts; with her elbows were drawn back in this arrangement, it was as if she was almost encouraging him to look at nipples which were clearly visible and stiffly erect from the constant teasing of the bridle (she wasn't allowed to use the nipple bridle so simply had the reins clipped to her piercings). Her skin was still flushed from the exertion of the game and sweat ran down her body as she stood in front of him, her bare, shaved sex thrust forwards and her booted legs apart.

I really couldn't blame him for staring.

'You weren't in.' He managed to say, though this time he didn't look away from Bryony. 'I thought I'd stroll up to the village and get a drink.'