The Wench

I am not a rich guy so I can't afford a four-wheeler.

I can't afford a transport wench and a house wench like Jackson has either, or that bastard Smith who tells everybody who will listen that he has two transport wenches and two house wenches too.

On work days, my transport wench straps on her leather sandals and her ball-gag, complete with a leather drool-catcher which hangs from two thongs just below her chin, inserts her wooden ponytail butt plug, attaches her reins to her nipple rings and harnesses herself naked between the shafts of my two-wheeler. Then we set off at a trot to travel the seven miles to the office where I work.

Most days, Smith will overtake me in his two-wench, four-wheeler, showing off by grinning at me and cracking his whip as a signal for his big-titted wenches to break into a canter. He only does it to make their pretty tits bounce to make me jealous. Pretentious bastard!

When I get to work, I get out of my cart and my wench trots my two-wheeler the seven miles back to my place so that she can clean and cook and do all of the things a house wench would do if I could afford one. I wish I could afford a wench with bigger tits.

At the end of the day my wench trots the two-wheeler back to the office in time to take me home.

But not today.

Once a year, all transport wenches, and the vehicles they haul, have to go through a rigorous testing procedure to make sure that they are still roadworthy. The D.T.W.C.T.I.C, the Department of Transport Wench and Cart Testing, Inspection and Certification is the government department that carries out the testing.

Today is the day I must renew my wench's, and my two-wheeler's, certificates of roadworthiness and the Testing Station is six miles away in the opposite direction to my office. I had to set off extra early this morning to get there on time. I had to get up extra early too.

It was still dark when my wench woke me by gently sucking on my cock and it was still dark when I came in her mouth and she swallowed. It was still dark when she bathed and dressed me and then cooked and served me my breakfast. The sun was just starting to rise when she crawled under the breakfast table to give me my second blowjob while I ate.

Breakfast was delicious, but from then on my day went downhill.

I usually have three blowjobs before I leave home for work but today there wasn't time for the third.

I left my wench and my two-wheeler at the Testing Station and I had to walk the five hundred yards to the bus depot to catch the bus to work.

Can you believe it, they wouldn't even loan me a saddle wench to carry me to the bus depot?

My wench would be placed on a treadmill, still harnessed to my two-wheeler containing a sack of sand to represent the weight of an average man, and she would have to trot at a steady pace for four hours and if she didn't clock up twenty-five miles in that time she would fail.

My old roadworthiness certificates didn't expire for a couple of days so, win or lose, my wench would still be able to pick me up from work at the end of the day.

At the bus depot I let the First Class bus go. I'm not made of money!

The First Class bus had a big, luxuriously upholstered, leather armchair for each of its ten passengers and was drawn by eight, gorgeous, young, big-titted, big-butted wenches, swishing their tails in a very provocative way, who were so well matched that they could have been identical octuplets, but they weren't going to part me from my hard-earned cash.

I let the Second Class bus go too. It had leather-bound, padded benches for its fifteen passengers. The big tits of the eight poorly-matched wenches pulling it were a little too droopy, and their big butts had a little too much cellulite. Their ponytails, on their heads and sticking out of their butts, looked like they hadn't been shampooed for a week and their drool-catchers were almost full.

The Third Class bus I caught had plain wooden benches for twenty passengers and was drawn by eight third class wenches. They all looked like they were approaching their expiry dates and there had been no attempt at all made to match them. There were tall wenches mixed with short wenches, black wenches mixed with white wenches and plump wenches mixed with skinny wenches.

Their drool-catchers were full and overflowing, all over their tits, and a couple of them had scruffy ponytails in their butts that didn't match the scruffy ponytails on their heads. I could tell by the stubble that their pits and pubes hadn't been shaved for three or four days at least.

There was a long pole sticking out of the front of the bus and it had a crossbar at the end of it. The eight wenches stood behind the crossbar, four on one side and four on the other, grasping it with their hands, their wrists were shackled to it. This was the arrangement on all of the buses and it meant that the driver could see all eight of his wenches' butts and make sure that they all got a fair crack of his whip.

The wenches' left nipple rings were all connected to a length of stiff wire and their right nipple rings to another. The driver's right rein passed through a loop at the right end of the crossbar and was connected to the right nipple ring of the wench on the right and his left rein passed through a loop at the left end of the crossbar and was connected to the left nipple ring of the wench on the left. When the driver pulled on the right rein he pulled on the right nipple of all eight wenches and when he pulled on the left rein he pulled on the left nipple of all eight wenches.

The cheap brass rings had turned the wenches' nipples green.

I sat at the front next to the driver. He cracked his whip and we set off at trot. It was thirteen miles to the bus depot nearest to my office and it took almost two hours to get there, stopping at every stop for passengers to board and alight, and the eight wenches were dripping with sweat and drooling copiously. Most of the drool ended up on their tits.

"Can't you go any faster?" I asked him after the first hour had elapsed and we were only halfway there, "can't you whip their sweaty butts and make them gallop?"

"Got to stick to the timetable, sir," he said, "and galloping ain't allowed. It's too dangerous. If one of these here wenches broke a leg or dropped down dead from exhaustion during a gallop, passengers might be injured, and we couldn't have that, could we, sir?"

The bus was stuck for a several minutes when we crested a hill and saw that a massive vehicle was climbing the narrow road on the other side of the hill at a snail's pace. There was no room to pass.

A huge, eight-wheeled cart, loaded with dozens of barrels of beer, was struggling up the hill. The cart belonged to the local brewery and was drawn by twenty huge, muscle-bound wenches whose hair had been dyed fox-red, and the ponytails on their heads were really foxtails with white tips and they all had bushy, red, white-tipped foxtails sticking out of their butts.

The minimum height for a brewery wench is six feet and three inches.

The guy who owned the brewery, and the wenches, was the leader of the local foxhunters. He was immensely rich and obsessed with two things, foxhunting and big tits. The brewery wenches work in teams of twenty Monday to Saturday. On Sundays, each one is harnessed to a swift two-wheeler driven by a red-coated, jack-booted huntsman wielding a whip, which he will apply to her muscle-bound butt with vigour when in pursuit of a fleeing fox.

Tradition decrees that, if the hunt is successful, the huntsman will end the day with his cock in the wench's mouth and, if it is unsuccessful, he will end the day with his cock balls-deep in her butt.

I've heard that these wenches spend as much time pumping iron in the brewery gym as they do delivering beer. The brewery owner has also had them all surgically enhanced so that they have tits like basketballs and nipples like rifle bullets. They need to be strong because they don't just pull the cart they also woman-handle the barrels into and out of the various taverns they deliver to.

That's why the driver doesn't use reins and the wenches aren't shackled to the crossbars and their nipple rings aren't linked together, it's too much hassle to unhitch the wenches at every tavern and to hitch them up again afterwards. There are two crossbars attached to the centre pole of the cart, with five wenches one each side of each crossbar.

The centre pole of the cart sticks out a few feet in front of the wenches' front crossbar and there is a flag with a picture of a fox on it on a short vertical pole. By pulling on cords the driver can swing the flag left or right to tell the wenches which way to turn.

At every tavern stop the front rank of wenches change places with the rear rank to ensure that every muscle-bound wench's butt gets a fair crack of the driver's whip.

I've also heard that these eye-catching wenches don't live on milky oatmeal like most wenches, they live on what's left of the hops and barley after the beer has been brewed.

A loud-mouthed guy once came in to my local tavern, telling everyone who would listen that he was a brewery cart driver in charge of twenty huge, muscle-bound wenches who would instantly satisfy his every whim, no matter how perverted, at his word of command. When I asked him what brewery wenches ate, the blowhard took one look at my regulation office garb (stove-pipe hat, frock coat, doublet, pantaloons and brogues) and said, "Office boys."

A picture of a running fox had been tattooed on all forty of the wenches' surgically enhanced tits.

Only nineteen of the sweating, drooling, muscle-bound wenches were actually struggling to drag the heavy cart up the hill. The twentieth wench was sitting on the driver's lap with her back to him. The driver's cock was balls-deep in the wench's butt and his hands were mauling her massive, sweaty, drool-soaked, tattooed tits.

What is the point of equipping ball-gagged wenches with drool-catchers if their drivers don't empty them regularly?

The wench who was sitting on the driver's lap had her feet firmly planted on the deck of the cart on either side of the driver's seat and she was using her powerful leg muscles to repeatedly thrust her whole body up and down, dragging her sphincter along the full length of his impressive shaft. During the time that we were watching her, the wench must have slid her muscle-bound butt hole up and down his rigid cock at least a hundred times.

The wench held her shit-streaked butt plug in her left hand and with her right hand she was whipping the muscle-bound butts of her nine sister wenches in the rear rank to encourage them to double their efforts, with the driver telling her which butts to aim for and enthusiastically slapping her huge tits if she didn't whip hard enough.

When he finally came inside his wench's butt, the driver pulled out his cock, rammed her shitty butt plug back inside her, snatched the whip from her hand and shoved her off the cart with his foot. The wench resumed her station at the rear crossbar and, as she strove with the other sweating, drooling wenches to get their burden up the hill, the driver concentrated on her butt with his whip.

When we finally managed to pass the brewery cart our driver gave all eight of our wenches' butts a very generous taste of his whip and they cantered until we had made up the time we'd lost.

At the bus depot, I needed a piss so I went to use the toilet. When I came out, all of the other passengers had gone and the driver had unhitched the wenches from the crossbar and from their nipple wires and had cuffed their wrists behind their backs. They still had their ball-gags and butt plugs in place and they were all still sweating and drooling.

The driver was sitting on an old armchair with a rosy red apple in his hand. He had his cock out and it was hard. The sweating, drooling wenches were lined up in front of him.

"You're all going to get some lovely milky oatmeal, my dears," he said with a grin on his face, "but the first wench to drop to her knees gets to eat this juicy apple after she has given me a blowjob."

All eight wenches dropped to their knees instantly. I couldn't tell which one hit the ground first and I don't think the driver could either. He removed the ball-gag from one of them and she sucked his cock while the other seven wenches gazed on longingly, not at the driver's cock but at the apple.

Eventually I arrived at work an hour late and the boss was none too happy and gave me the shittiest jobs to do. Jackson didn't help by bragging that he was going to buy a second big-titted transport wench and trade his two-wheeler in for a sedan chair. He said he was looking forward to amusing himself in the evenings by watching his two transport wenches sucking each other's clits while his house wench sucked his cock. The lucky bastard!

I had to make up for my lateness by working an extra hour at the end of the day.

When I eventually left work, my wench was waiting outside for me with the two-wheeler. I noticed that she had a black eye and six red stripes across her butt. There was a note written in blue ink on her left tit. It said: "Please call into the Testing Station to collect your certificates of roadworthiness and to pay your bill. We are open till nine."

My wench's drool-catcher was half full so, as I am a responsible citizen, I emptied it into one of the many drool-tanks provided by the town council. Unfortunately the drool-tank was already full to the brim and my contribution just oozed out and dripped onto the cobbles. Still, I tried.

I set off for the Testing Station, I was running late so I gave my wench's butt a taste of my whip and she broke into a canter. I was making up the time I'd lost and, as I had to pass my house on the way to the Testing Station, I decided to call in for a drink and a snack and a blowjob. I thought about giving my wench a bowl of milky oatmeal but the blowjob took too long and I didn't have time.

I arrived at the Testing Station at seven-thirty. I left my wench and the two-wheeler outside. The large building was full of treadmills. They are driven by an ingenious system of cogs and shafts and belts and pulleys powered by a huge coal-burning steam engine.

The very cutting-edge of modern technology.

Most of the treadmills had naked, ball-gagged, butt plugged transport wenches on them, sweating and drooling as they trotted on steadily, drawing all manner of two, four and six wheeled carts, the larger vehicles were drawn by pairs of wenches.

On one very large treadmill, a bus full of sandbags was being drawn by a team of eight sweating, drooling, trotting wenches. One wench was pissing as she trotted but they wouldn't fail her for that.

Every now and then one of the wenches would jerk her head to one side to dodge a wooden ball propelled by a jet of steam. Occasionally one of them would yelp as a ball hit her in the face. One wench had been hit on the nose and her drool-catcher was overflowing with a mixture of blood and drool that spilled onto her bouncing tits as she continued to trot on.

I could see the guy in charge of the place through the glass door of his office. I could also see that he was busy. He had two very peculiar-looking wenches in the office with him. The wenches' heads had been shaved, they had no tails attached to their butt plugs and they were covered from head to toe in coal dust, or maybe it was soot, mixed with sweat and drool.

The two soot-covered wenches had incredibly large tits and they were not wearing ball-gags.

One of the wenches was on her knees in front of the sitting guy, sucking his cock, and the other was bending over, legs wide apart, grasping her ankles while he gave her about twenty strokes of his cane on her butt. The guy said something and the wenches changed places. The guy came in the kneeling wench's mouth and she swallowed just as he laid the twentieth stroke on the butt of the other sooty wench.

There was a steam pressure gauge in the office and the guy kept glancing at it.

He buttoned up his breeches. He saw me waiting and beckoned me to enter the office. I entered.

"These bone-idle, lazy wenches have smeared coal dust all over my cock," he said to me, "my house wench and my transport wench will have to lick it clean when I get home."

The guy poured two large glasses of water and gave them to the big-titted, coal-black, bald wenches. They downed them in a single draft. He poured two more and they downed them too.

"You two let the steam pressure fall below the minimum acceptable level for three whole minutes," he said sternly to the wenches, "think yourselves lucky I only gave you twenty strokes apiece on your butts. Let the pressure fall again and you'll each get thirty on the butt and thirty on the tits."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir," chorused the wenches.

"Have you two selfish coal wenches no consideration at all for me?" the guy ranted, "You have each got only one butt, I will have to cane two butts. You have each got only one pair of tits, I will have to cane two pairs of tits. Have you any idea how much my caning arm is going ache if I have to deliver one hundred and twenty strokes at maximum power because of your laziness?"

"No, Sir. Sorry, Sir," chorused the wenches.

"If the pointer on that pressure gauge falls below the red line again, even if for just one second, I won't just cane your butts and your tits, I'll make you sleep tonight with your ball gags strapped in your mouths and your hands cuffed behind your backs so that you won't be able to spend half the night sucking on each other's clits like you usually do."

"The sooty wenches seemed alarmed by that prospect. "Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

"Now strap your ball-gags back in and get back to work before the pressure drops again."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir." They scurried off, strapping in their ball-gags.

The guy could see that I was curious about what had just occurred.

"I can see that you're curious about what has just occurred," he said, "those two wenches are my coal wenches, their job is to make sure that the steam boiler has a constant supply of coal and that the steam pressure never gets too low. It can't get too high because the safety valves will just let the excess blow off, so there's no excuse for not shovelling in the coal fast enough.

"You're going to ask me why my wenches' heads are shaved and why they have no tails on their butt plugs, aren't you? It's because they work in close proximity to naked flames and hair is extremely flammable, a single spark from the furnace could cause a blaze.

"If you want to see the damage that sparks can do, just take a look at those two wenches' tits when they've been scrubbed clean at the end of the day. Because they work in such a hot environment, and because they lose so much moisture through sweating and drooling, I have to give each of them two pints of water every hour.

"You're also going me why my wenches have such big tits. It's simple, I just like big tits. I was told to buy two wenches for the Testing Station so I went to a wench auction and bought the two with the biggest tits. Now, what can I do for you?"

I introduced myself to the guy in the office and he gave me my certificates of roadworthiness.

"Your cart has passed its inspection," he said, "but the iron rims on your wooden wheels are wearing thin so if you don't replace them they probably won't pass next year."

Another expense I can't afford.

"Your wench has passed her inspection," he continued, "she trotted for four hours and clocked up twenty-seven miles. As part of the inspection we test a wench's ability to react to unexpected hazards, at random intervals during the inspection a machine shoots ten wooden balls at the wench's face to see if she is quick enough and nimble enough to dodge at least seven of them.