Pony Run
© dikke_kannibaal@hotmail.com, October 2001

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It was a beautiful morning. Sunny, not too hot, a little foggy. The black 
buick convertible was humming its way south, Jack driving it carefully at a 
steady speed. Jack had always loved machines. Although being rich enough to 
afford himself a new car every week, he never ever mistreated an engine as 
others often did. From time to time a soft voice from the GPS system uttered 
some driving directions.
In the passenger's seat his wife Esther was reading the party information 
about that they had received the day before, together with a CD containing 
driving directions. Although there were things about the party that were not 
strictly legal, their host was careful to ensure privacy, and lived in the 
middle of nowhere, on a huge ranch. Without driving directions, you could 
easily get lost.
Esther's red hair was floating in the wind as she studied the leaflet. Even 
now, in her late thirties, she was a stunning beauty. Jack was reminded every 
day how happy he was to have married her. It was wonderful to wake up in the 
morning and look at her smiling, sleeping face, or her laughing eyes, to let 
his hand slide over her body. She was a good wife, and she loved him.
'You know, even after all those years, I still can't get used to the idea of 
eating horseflesh. I mean, I know they are not real horses, and I know the 
run is only a selection thing, but somehow I still feel uneasy when it says: 
'after the race at 11:00 the bets will be paid and the losing pair (horse & 
jockey) will be spitted and roasted for the afternoon barbecue'. It feels 
strange.'
'Bets? Are there any bets?'
She looked at him with the look of a wife looking at her husband, selecting 
for the thousandth time a polka dotted tie on a striped shirt.
'You didn't read the invitation?'
'No. And you know why. I planned to do it yesterday evening. But my plans 
changed rather drastically.'
Esther smiled. She had really felt in the mood for love yesterday evening, so 
after preparing the dinner, she had sent the maid away, and slipped into 
something sexy. When Jack got home, they had eaten together, while she 
undressed slowly, garment by garment until he found himself gazing at his 
scantily clad wife, still behaving as if this was a formal dinner. He had 
been shaking with desire while going along with her game, pretending to 
ignore her sensual movements. But distracted, he had accidentally poured his 
red wine into his water. Suddenly he threw everything off the table, ripped 
her clothes from her body and took her there, on the dining table. Afterwards 
they had fled into the bedroom, and made love for hours like crazy. She had 
loved every second of it.
'OK, I'll read it to you, my dear husband. But next time, no hanky panky 
until the paperwork is done. We are supposed to arrive between 8:30 and 9:00. 
Should be no problem. The horses and their riders are on display from 8:00 
till 9:45, and we have to inspect them.
There are 8 pony / jockey teams, and there are seven one-mile runs, one each 
15 minutes. All teams take part in the first run, at 10:00. After each run, 
the winning team is removed from the race, and the last three teams in each 
race are given a penalty weight of four pounds each. By the seventh race, at 
11:45, only two teams will be left, and the losing team is then spitted and 
roasted. Each of the teams has the same strength and weight, so the races 
should be fun to watch.
Hey, here it says something about a volunteer pony. ThatÕs the first IÕve 
heard about that. Is that something new?'
'Nothing new, but rather rare.' Jack explained. 'There are as a matter of 
fact two kinds of volunteers : the real volunteers, who submit themselves to 
an ordeal just for the thrill of it, or to win a bet or pay a debt, or the 
'assigned' volunteers. The latter are those who tried to cheat in a game or 
influence the result of a game. If the Organisation finds out, they are 
punished by having to participate in a game with the same chance of survival 
as the event they tried to cheat in. So they are not reallly volunteers. One 
thing different about a volunteer is that if they lose, their relatives have 
the right to buy them back, and a replacement girl is then used.'
'Humm, isn't this difficult? I mean: last month, there was that show with 
lions. You can't stop a lion devouring its prey after it has jumped on it.'
'ThatÕs true. It's also the reason why volunteers are mostly found at races 
and other controlled games, where the selection game is separate from the 
execution. Personally I don't know if the idea of a buy-back is good or not. 
As this woman - or man - knows that there is a possibility of being bought 
back, they are not really fighting for their lives, and are at a disadvantage 
compared to the others who do.'
'I see. But for races, you must be trained. Golly, running seven miles in a 
row, with someone on your shoulders and weights attached to you as well, 
that's heavy. And those 'volunteers' will mostly be untrained people!'
'Mostly yes, but the organisation always cares about equal chances for all 
participants, so if a volunteer is entered now, it means that she is capable 
of participating. Mostly volunteers pass through the same rigid training as 
the real ones. Is she a pony or a jockey?'
'A pony. The leaflet states 'A pony volunteer has been entered for the 
races.Õ
'Ah, this means that she is an 'assigned' volunteer: if she was a true 
volunteer, they would have phrased it as 'a volunteer has entered', not 'has 
been entered''.
Esther pondered this a bit.
'You know', she said, 'I like this. I have always hated people who cheat. I 
really, really hope she loses. But I think a real volunteer would have been 
more thrilling.' She was silent for a moment.
'If I volunteered for something, would you pay to buy me out of it?'
Jack pondered the question.
'You know, I might. But if you knew for sure that I was going to buy you out, 
you would not be a real volunteer any more. I think, if you volunteered, I 
would leave it up to your sister, give her the money, and leave it to her to 
decide.'
Esther looked at him, trying to guess his thoughts. 'You know that my sister 
and I and my sister are barely on speaking terms. Since I married you, we 
have only seen each other at family celebrations. And even there we avoid 
each other.'
'I know, and that's why I would choose her. It would be much more real for 
you. Losing might really mean everything that involved, but if it was up to 
me, it wouldnÕt be the same.Õ Esther seemed thoughtful. She looked again at 
the leaflet.
'Ok. Now for the bets. Everybody receives a one-pound tag, that he or she can 
attach to a pony of his choice, before each race. With each race completed 
the tags collect points. If the pony arrives first, one point is added, if 
second, two points and so on. The tag that accumulates the lowest number of 
points over the seven races wins. The owner of this tag gets a silver Joker 
Card from the Organisation. If there are several winners, as many Joker Cards 
will be distributed, and you are allowed to trade the tags during the races. 
The person who presents the property certificate of the winning tag will be 
considered the owner. You should fantasize less and concentrate on the road, 
dear. I think you should have turned left here.'
At the ranch, a young man in evening dress opened the doors, and helped 
Esther out of the car. After checking the invitation, the man introduced 
himself as Marc, and offered to show them around the place. Esther gladly 
accepted, as it was her first time at the ranch. She had met Mr Gunther Rice, 
the host, a few times, and found him a pleasant and well educated man, but 
that had always been on formal occasions. She took her hat from the back seat 
- she had rightly insisted that at the races a lady wears a hat, and Jack had 
discovered that hats had at least one thing in common with bikinis: the 
cheaper they looked, the more expensive they were - and followed Marc.
Jack handed the car keys to a valet, and showed him the two slaves Mr Rice 
had requested, trussed up in the back of the car. The valet checked in on his 
phone, nodded and promised Jack that he would take care of unloading the 
slaves and taking them to their designated slave quarters. Jack had no idea 
what the slaves were going to be used for, but Rice had asked if he could 
borrow them for the day, and Jack was only too glad to do a favor to this 
influential man.
They both walked with Marc through the ranch. Marc pointed out where the main 
facilities were, showed them their rooms, and explained the programme of 
events. As often happened, there was a slight delay and the races were due to 
start 30 minutes late, so they had ample time to visit the horses.
The eight horses and jockeys were standing on a long row, in the heat of the 
sun, each jockey beside its associated horse.
People were walking between them, commenting on the quality of both and 
discussing their chances of survival in the race, and the quality of their 
meat if they lost.
The horses were completely blindfolded, explained Marc. A cap over their 
heads cut off all sights and sounds of what was happening. As a result they 
also had no idea where they were, or where they were running. Their mouths 
were left free, to allow them to breathe freely, something they would surely 
need.
The jockeys were treated in exactly the opposite way: they could see and 
hear, but their mouths were gagged, so they could not yell at the horses. The 
jockeys were supposed to sit on small saddles fastened on the backs of the 
ponies. Esther noticed that, to keep the jockeys firmly in the saddle, a 
stiff steel rod was fixed in the center of each saddle. From the location on 
the saddle Esther guessed it was destined to go in at the rear.
The ponies and jockeys were all fitted with anal plugs and their urether was 
blocked too, so no shit or piss was going to interfere with the events.
The anal plug had a hole drilled in it, which was used to fix a tail to the 
ponies, or to fix the plug over the rod on the saddle for the jockeys. Ponies 
and jockeys were almost naked.
The ponies were all beautiful long-legged creatures with firm breasts, 
although vastly different in height. Their size went from average to really 
tall. All were wearing a kind of harness, to which the saddle was fastened, 
which more or less supported their breasts, leaving their nipples and nipple 
rings free, and they wore shoes with really long heels. Under the spiked 
heels a flat support was added, to give them a gfirm grip on the ground. The 
head mask was decorated with two horse-ears and hair was fixed to it, giving 
the girls a really pony-ish look.
Their arms were tied together behind their backs, and supported stirrups for 
the feet of the jockeys. Apart from the harness, shoes and head-mask, the 
animals were naked, displaying their muscular legs, their flat bellies and 
well-developed shoulders to the eager looker-ons. As they couldn't see or 
hear, they reacted nervously to the touch of an exploring hand, just as real 
horses do.
The jockeys were even more naked than the horses, and were dressed as every 
red-blooded teenager wants a Texan cheerleader to be dressed : cowboy shoes, 
cowboy hat, a few leather straps and that was it. Their elbows were cinched 
together behind, and a metal whip was tied to each underarm, so they could 
whip their pony, or give it directions with it.
Marc explained that before the start, the ponies would be cowering, feet flat 
on the ground, their heads between the legs of the jockeys sitting in their 
saddles, who were also bent down. As soon as the start sign was given, the 
jockeys would signal this to the ponies, the ponies would rise, lifting the 
jockies and start running. It was up to the jockeys to determine how hard and 
where the ponies should run. The track was a bit more than half a mile long, 
and the teams were required to run up to a large oak tree, turn around it - 
without tripping over the roots - and then come back. The winning team was 
the first one of which the red colored ornament on the jockey mask would 
cross the finish line. A photo-finish was provided for, so there would be no 
need for an ex aequo, and in the event of a dispute, the Organisation would 
decide the winner.
Esther really enjoyed the explanation. She asked Marc what strategies a 
jockey might have, and how they trained as teams, and so on. Jack wasn't 
surprised. He was used to this unique gift of his wifeÕs of making people 
give her their personal opinions on a lot of things.
Marc was only too glad to answer: 'Well, an obvious strategy could be to 
spare your pony during the first runs, and then to go for it after the fourth 
or fifth run, but this has been countered by the rule that the last three 
teams each get a four pound handicap for the following races. So if you 
finish with the last three four times, the pony has to carry an additional 16 
pounds, which is a considerable handicap. They have been trained for it, but 
it is still 16 pounds. Their training took four months, and they were already 
in good shape. The first three months they were trained individually to run 
long distances with and without weights, and to keep their balance, and the 
teams were formed based on their results. The last month was spent in 
rehearsing exactly the way they will run today, with pony, jockey, blindfold, 
even complete practice races here at the ranch.
This also helped to conceal the exact day of the real event from them, so 
they all had a normal sleep last night. These last four days they haven't had 
any solid food, only baxters and astronaut food, to keep their bowels empty, 
and they have been treated with EPO to give them additional strength.'
'Great', Esther encouraged him.'So you know the strong teams from the weak 
ones?' The question was too obvious.
'Well, there aren't really any exceptionally strong or weak teams, we took 
care of that. But some are stronger than others, and although I canÕt say 
who's going to win, I can guess which ones are more or less likely to lose. 
But I am not allowed to tell you. Look at this team here. The pony is a Dutch 
blonde, 24 years old, and the jocky is a negress from Haiti, 27 years old. 
They have both done very well some days, and very badly on other days during 
their training. No, my advice would be of no use to you.'
'There was also that volunteer, I suppose a question everybody asks...'
'Indeed. The volunteer is, as you would call it, an 'assigned' volunteer. She 
is the pony standing there'. He pointed at a team that was already surrounded 
by chatting people. Jack, Esther and Marc walked over to inspect the possibly 
damned woman a bit closer. Esther started to see the fun of the head mask. 
The woman was standing here, knowing that lots of other people, maybe even 
old friends of hers, might be standing just close to her, discussing her 
chances to win, to survive, discussing her meat, the shape of her legs, the 
firmness of her body, but she was unable to know, she could only guess. The 
only information she had was the occasional touch of a feeling hand.
The volunteer turned out to be a rather young woman, around thirty, and well 
built. Esther, who was a work-out fan herself, recognised a well trained, 
healthy body. The woman was a natural blonde, as her unshaved bush showed. 
Her driver was an equally white woman, a little taller than the pony, 
nervously looking around, and with reason: if they lost, the volunteer could 
get a buy-out, but she couldn't. Being associated with this volunteer was 
seriously limiting her chances of survival.
'What did she do?' asked Jack, while Esther was inspecting the pony's body.
'She tried a trick with the dice at a poker game. As the outcome of the poker 
game decided on the fate of an animal, the Organisation confiscated her. She 
obviously didn't know that those games are all taped and viewed afterwards. 
Anyhow, she'd better win: her boy-friend already said she isn't worth paying 
to buy-out - as far as he is concerned. The price is fixed at 20 grand, by 
the way, not that much.'
Jack felt how Esther took the heavy tags out of his pocket.
'Can I put your tags on her, Jack?'
'Sure, go ahead'
She attached both tags to the harness of the blindfolded blonde.
Esther smiled to Jack 'As I told you, I don't like cheaters, and she'll make 
a nice spitroast. The jockey is a bit skinny, but has a nice belly.' Esther 
wasn't alone in her opinion, noticed Jack : several other tags were already 
fastened to the harness of the poor woman. Or stupid woman.
'How did she do during the training?' he asked Marc.
'Oh, she did rather well. She was a rather sportive person. Of course, the 
other women had already spent months under control of the Organisation, and 
as you know, we train every candidate physically as much as possible, so she 
had no head start. But I think she will do nicely. Of course, she has already 
more than 12 tags, if it continues this way, she'll have to carry weight!'
Jack watched silently as Esther appreciatively squeezed and fondled the 
breasts of the volunteer pony. He had always thought it sexually 
discriminating that woman were allowed to touch pony girls, and for men this 
was considered un-gentlemanly. He had only mentioned it once, but Esther had 
replied that it was only fair: woman were not allowed to touch ponyboys 
either, while men could have their way with them if they wanted to. He had 
answered that this was not the same, that he wasn't even interested in 
touching ponyboys, but then Esther had pointed out that this meant that he 
had a problem, and not that the system was flawed. Anyhow, he noticed that 
the volunteer responded rather well to EstherÕs attentions: her nipples were 
rather stiff and he thought he saw some wetness between her legs.
'Do you think she likes it?' he asked Esther.
'I don't know if she likes it, but I do, and she is clearly very aware of her 
body. And her breasts are fine, she would make a nice roast. By the way, do 
you think those people over there could be trained for anything?' she nodded 
discretely in the direction of an older couple in their late sixties, that 
was inspecting the teams. 'If they cheat, I don't think they could manage a 
pony race!'.
Jack didn't know the couple Esther nodded at, but he had already discovered 
that age and richness ware determining factors for a membership of the 
organisation. Young and rich, or older and really rich, or very old and 
disgusting rich, something along that line.
He posed the question, a bit rephrased, to Marc.
'Well, if the volunteer is older, or can't be trained enough to give him or 
her a fair chance, the game is played with the normal designed participant, 
but the final fate is carried out in parallel on the volunteer and the 
participant. All conditions are equal: winning or losing, the possibility of 
a designated relative to buy the participant free. The Organisation always 
tries to guarantee a fair chance to all participants. However, on special 
requests there are exceptions. A typical example would be a slave punished to 
be a death pony : that is a pony that is entered for a race, but if she 
doesn't finish with the first three, she is slaughtered, without the chance 
of a buy-out. Those ponies are trained as well as possible, but on the set 
date they are made to participate in the races, fit or not.'
A lot of people were walking around the teams now. Seemingly everybody had 
timed his or her arrival rather well. The volunteer had a lot of attention, 
but also the other teams were busily being discussed. Jack remarked that the 
ponies were getting rather excited by all this, more even than the jockeys. 
Being cut off from most of their senses, unaware of the timetable of events, 
they could only concentrate on their bodies. The jockeys could hear and see, 
making them more prone to distractions.
At last, a soft hum came from the loudspeakers, and guests were asked to take 
their places along the track. The race was about to begin. The jockeys 
clearly stiffened. The clock determining their fate was starting to tick.
Jack and Esther selected a place near the finish, and installed themselves on 
a pair of chairs, standing alongside the track. The teams, the jockeys 
mounted on their ponies, walked under the guidance of the ranch personnel to 
the start position. The ponies were made to cower down, and a chain was 
connected to their pussy-rings.
The start would be given by firing a gun behind them, that at the same time 
released the chains. The ponies were like frozen statues, but deeply 
concentrated breathing. They didn't know which strategy their jockey would 
follow: running for the first place, sparing their forces for the next race, 
trying to avoid being with the last three. The tension in their bodies showed 
in their muscles.
Behind the starting line Mr Rice showed up, and a short applause started, 
which he waved down.
'Dear friends, I am glad to be able to welcome you to this annual pony-race 
and barbeque. I hope you don't mind that there are no additional bets to 
place, like last year, but I have a nice alternative. As most people here 
know, my mistress of last year, Shasha, tried to be a litle bit creative 
about the iron rules of the Organisation, and was a bit careless about 
carrying out her plans. To excuse her for this sloppiness, she volunteered to 
participate in this run. Now, as one of the older members of the 
Organisation, I really don't like anyone to take advantage of me like that, 
so I am certainly not going to buy her free if she loses.'
Esther was aghast. She would never have imagined that a man so influential as 
Mr. Rice would admit that his protˇgˇe would cheat, let alone make her take 
part in a Game on his own ranch.
She wanted to ask Jack what he thought, but Rice continued: 'I see that many 
of you agree with me about cheating, judging by the number of tags she is 
wearing. Anyhow, my new companion, Jacky here - he bowed to a stunning blonde 
at his side - really isn't happy about Shasha coming back, so to solve the 
dilemma I decided that, if good old Shasha is good enough not to lose this 
race, she will be given as a full slave to the winner of the tag game in 
addition to the silver Joker. If there are more winners in ex aequo, well, 
there are dice for that kind of situation.'
Applause came from the crowd. Once again Esther reflected on the narrow 
distance between success and deep failure. After hitting the jackpot as 
mistress of Rice, she had committed an act of stupidity, and now she was 
doomed to either the spit, or slavery. Esther knew about 'life slavery'. It 
was an unrestricted form of slavery, unlimited in time and use. Depending 
upon her owner the woman might survive it for a very long time or a very 
short time, but having taken part in this kind of race, sooner or later she 
would end up in a snuff amusement game for someone.
'And, ladies and gentlemen, may I now present you to Jacky, my new companion, 
whom I would like to give the honor of starting this first race. Jacky, the 
floor is yours.'
The voluptuous blonde, looking straight out of the Baywatch film set, stood 
up, and took the gun from Rice. Without hestitation she aimed the heavy six-
shooter in the air and fired.
Immediately the ponies jumped upright and the race started, the jockeys 
mercilessly whipping the naked buttocks of their horses.
Jack simply loved multiple pony races, especially if some spice was added 
like in this one. He loved the way people walked around, the relaxed feeling, 
the sudden outburst of energy while the ponies were racing, and he also 
enjoyed the tricks of the associated bets. You could never tell who was going 
to win, or who was going to lose, but you could study the bodies of the 
participants, their weight, the way they performed during successive races, 
and then you could make an educated guess. It was more instinct than wisdom, 
more art than craft, but at the end of the game, the same small group of 
people was always lucky. It was not something that could be learned or 
trained for. He watched the pace of the ponies, and the reactions of the 
jockeys. Some were hoping to finish the race as soon as possible, others 
tried to limit the damage and not end with the last few, while others tried 
to obstruct other participants. The limited communication between jockey and 
pony made it a most enjoyable spectacle. The jockeys were whipping and 
pulling their horses to force them to do their utmost best, and the muscles 
of the poor beasts were working as hard as they could.
Having placed a bet on the volunteer turned out to have been a rather good 
guess. During the first run she finished second, but the difference between 
the teams was small, and the ability of the jockey to hinder others, or to 
avoid being hindered by others, or to pace the speed of the pony so that some 
power was left during the last sprint, turned out to be an important factor.
For the second run, people were much more carefull in assigning their tags, 
and the volunteer, although having scored very well, only got a few of them. 
People clearly wanted to win, but there was no use in winning if the 
volunteer got spitted, so the best thing to do was to spare it a bit. As the 
races developed, more and more the endurance of the ponies would come into 
play, and not the immediate strength, and it was clear that, although very 
well trained, the non-volunteers were tougher and so supposedly would score 
better during the last races than the volunteer. Although at first he had 
wondered about the initiative of Mr Rice, Jack now thought of it as the only 
method left to him to save the life of his ex-girlfriend: by declaring her to 
be available bait, she was spared by those who would otherwise not have 
thought about giving her a chance.
The second race was run, then the third. During the fourth race, the 
volunteer managed to finish first. She had been running slower during the 
previous two races, and had accumulated a few extra punishment pounds, but 
this was clearly offset by the spared strength. The sweat dripping from the 
muscular bodies, the team was led away, and while the four remaining teams 
prepared for the fifth race, the jockey was carried away to the stables, but 
the volunteer was completely undressed, her hood was taken off, she was 
manacled and led to the platform, where the race officials were sitting. 
There, under the smirking looks of Jacky, she was chained to a bolt in the 
floor, and told to assume the offering slave- position : standing upright, 
hands in the neck, shoulder back, legs spread.
She immediately assumed the required position and didn't move, although the 
sweat was dripping from her body, and her breasts were hovering due to her 
heavy breathing. Her training had clearly included more than just pony 
duties.
On the track the fifth race was being fought and the atmosphere was becoming 
grim. The faces of the jockeys clearly expressed despair. After this fifth 
race only three teams were left, and they were about equally strong. The 
number of tags also began to play a serious role : not only the punishment 
tags that the ponies had accumulated, but also the tags the betters were 
attaching, that were now divided over only three teams. A good runner could 
suddenly receive twenty additional pounds for the next round, turning a sure 
win in a sure loss. Jack quickly understood that his talent for picking the 
winning pony was useless in this situation, and he let Esther fix the tags. 
She was even doing better than he would have done.
The three teams were running a painful race. Chasing each other, trying to 
hinder or cut off the loop of each other, panic stricken, the bodies of both 
ponies and jockeys were strained to the maximum, the sweat dripping from 
their flat bellies, their breathing audible, groans audible from ball-gagged 
mouths. The public also grew more and more serious. The game part was over, 
this was the serious stuff, the running for life.
The last race started. Guessing who would win was impossible.
The two teams left were both exhausted. Esther attached their tags to the 
pony with the biggest breasts, reasoning that if she won, they would finish 
with the best bets, and if she lost, they would have the consolation of 
tasting the really huge breasts of this pony. She looked into the eyes of the 
jockey while explaining this to her husband, and the terror hidden deep into 
those eyes made her feel wet. She could easily imagine the thoughts of the 
jockey: she had been assigned to this pony, and now some stupid detail, such 
as the breast size, was giving her two pounds additional handicap. And nobody 
cared whether she or the other team would lose. To those people, only the 
thrill of the bet was there, and the personal taste for the expected quality 
of the meat, and after this barbecue, other interesting things awaited, like 
watching telly, walking around, simply living. For them however it was life 
or death, it was final. The other team, a muscular negress pony, answering to 
the impossible name of Amanthua, and a caucasian blond haired jockey called 
Elodie, was in no better shape.
Esther let her hands slide along the shapely legs of the big-breasted pony. 
The muscles moved as she touched them. Slowly she brought her hand to her 
nose and sniffed the smell of the pony sweat. The smell of fear, she thought. 
She loved it.
As it turned out the big breasted pony won, and, while the officials started 
counting the tag values, the other team was quietly led away to the kitchen. 
They were too exhausted to protest, although the blindfolded negress pony 
suddenly jumped and shivered when she discovered she wasn't being led to the 
platform, but to her slaughtering. The gutting wasn't exactly a nice thing to 
watch, and for a live spitting it was better carried out in a well equiped 
kitchen than in the open. Esther had once wondered about the ease with which 
those condemned woman walked to their death, but then she had learned that 
compliant slaves received sedative injections, whereas rebellious ones were 
gutted, spitted and roasted as wide awake as possible. Maybe it was also some 
kind of pride: displaying their last defiance of the rich customers, not 
giving them the satisfaction of seeing the meat being dragged to its final 
fate.
(IÕm not quite sure what you meant by the last sentence in your version)
All attention was focused on the podium for the betting result. Although Jack 
thought they had done a very fine job, it turned out that a lot of people had 
been doing it equally well, or better. The final winner was a middle-aged 
woman. She had misguessed the winner only twice, and ended with an almost 
perfect score of ten. As a perfect hostess, Jacky unchained the volunteering 
pony Shasha - now life slave Shasha - and handed the chain to the old woman, 
kissing and congratulating her on her luck.
'My dear Mrs Cavenough, how glad I am that you are winning the best prize.'
'Thank you so much, Jacky. I must admit that it was more luck than wisdom, 
the chances were so well balanced. And I never would have expected to receive 
such a nice bonus.'
'Yes, it is a great body, isn't it? Michael had her trained for four months 
before letting her take part in this run, she's in a great shape. Now it's up 
to you to keep this shape. Be careful, she seems to have a tendency to be a 
bit lazy.'
'Oh, I can cope with that, no problem.'
'I also have a little additional gift of my own: while cleaning up, I found 
her personal diary hidden on the computer. Michael had the code broken by his 
agents, and it is really a revealing document.'
The gagged blonde stiffened when she overheard this conversation, but didn't 
dare to move. She knew Mrs Cavenough, and maybe she would have been better 
off to have lost the race. She remembered having been the guest of Mrs 
Cavenough once. In her bedroom, she had found a luscous redhead, who had 
given her lots of fun during the night, licking and kissing her endlessly. In 
the morning, Mrs Cavenough had asked whether she had been served well. When 
she half jokingly had said that the service was good, but that the slave's 
tongue seemed to be a bit short, MrsCavenough had simply had the woman's 
tongue cut out, and had had it prepared for her breakfast. She still 
remembered the panic-stricken eyes of the woman when she, relaxed sitting in 
the chair, uttered the fatal words to Mrs Cavenough.
'As you will notice, there are also a few sections on how to train and punish 
slaves, very instructive to read. There is even a section, detailing her 
opinions on other people, including some friends of yours, might be 
interesting to hand her out to them for a small verification.'
'I surely will think about that, my dear Jacky, and so much thanks for this 
wonderfull addendum to your already precious gift. You know, this makes it so 
much more a personal gift to me. Sir, could you please carry away this slave, 
and put her in a box for transportation? Lock her in a bent S-position, and 
put her in the back of my car. She is already plugged, and I will leave as 
early as tomorrow morning, so there is no need to feed or water her.'
As the assistant led the beatiful, and once powerful Shasha away to her new 
fate, the other people were disbanding, walking around and slowly moving to 
the two firepits, where the hot glowing coals were being prepared to receive 
the food for the afternoon.
The cleaning and spitting was carried out in the well equipped kitchen of the 
ranch house. Gutting was and had always been a messy job. The belly had to be 
numbed, then surgically the bowels and intestines must be removed, all 
bleeding carefully cauterized, the spit shoved through the longpig from mouth 
to bottom, then the spit must be fixed to the back muscles, to avoid bleeding 
caused by the movement of the longpig while the spit is rotating. All this 
must be carried out while the longpig remains 'alive and kicking'. To this 
end the necessary injections with anti-shock, anaesthetics and fortifying 
medicines are needed, a true specialist job. A good cook resembled more a 
surgeon than an old-fashioned butcher. Of course, you could also go at it 
with brute force, and simple disembowl and spit the longpig, or cut it up. 
This was sometimes done, but the chances of the longpig surviving the first 
ten minutes on the spit were small, so if you could afford a real cook, the 
hard way was - as usual - the best way, at least on a decent and civilized 
barbecue. After a hunt of course, things were different, and after longpigs 
were hunted down, most were suspended by their legs, gutted and bound to 
roast on an open fire, giving them a quick death. On a barbecue like this, 
the spectacle value of a live roaster was more or less a must.
Little after the proclamation of Sasha as a slave, the first roaster was 
brought out in the open. It was the ex-pony girl, the big breasted one. Her 
eyes, having been coverd by the mask the whole morning, were wide open now, 
and took in the smiling faces of the guests she was going to feed. Her hair 
was completely shoven, and her muscular body was blinking from the applied 
oil and barbecue sauce. Her hands were tied to one end of the pole above her 
head, and her ankles and knees at the other end, so she was stretched out 
completely.
The spit was carried by two body-builders, really huge muscular women, who 
were only wearing mini-bikinis in black leather, a pair of heat-resistant 
gloves and a pair of heavy army boots. They carried the spit in the 
traditional fashion over their shoulders, more for the show than for the 
weight: once arrived at the first spit they lifted the longpig without any 
difficulty from their shoulders, and placed the spit in the highest notch, 
about three feet above the glowing coals.
Esther had passed a few times in front of the barbecue pit, to get a feeling 
of the heat, and even at a distince, roughly corresponding to this highest 
position, the heat from the fire had been hard to bear. The airpump was 
connected to the spit-shaft, a motor was connected, and with a soft humming, 
the spit started to rotate.
Esther looked interestedly at the revolving face of the ex-pony, now longpig. 
It was one of her favourite turn-ons, imagining the thoughts that would rage 
through the head of the woman, spitted on the long shaft, above the fire, 
unable to speak. She imagined herself being impaled this way, turning around, 
looking at the people, the feet, the people, the sky, unable to move her head 
or utter a sound.
Feeling the heat from the coals, unable to escape the flames when they burned 
you, grateful for the coolness of the barbecue sauce. Esther noticed the 
carefully applied makeup: the lips, sucking on the shaft, were scarlet red, 
the eybrows were carefully painted and shaved to perfection, the eyelashes 
were pitch black. Even her nipples were coloured in perfect red.
Although the spit almost made it impossible for the longpig to move, Esther 
could see how the animal, tortured by the heat, was starting to twitch around 
the shaft, beginning her last, erotic performance. Too bad that she, now that 
she was more seducing than she ever had been, would never be able to please a 
man again. On the other hand, as a man's love goes through his stomach, she 
would be able to please a great many men this afternoon.
Soon the two body-builders carried out the second longpig, the muscular 
negress, and placed her over the second spit. One of them calmly walked to 
the first spit, switched off the motor, and started to turn the spit around 
manually. With an expert hand the meat was basted regularly. After a quarter 
of an hour, the twisting of the long-pigs seemed to falter, and the body-
builders lowered the spits to a bit less than two inches.
The increased heat seemed to drive the dying longpigs mad. They twitched 
around the spit like belly dancers, and, having found some slack in the 
bindings around their hands and feet, pushed themselves back and forth on 
their shafts. Esther wondered whether they still could think at this stage of 
their preparation. Although the air they breathed was cooled, their heads 
were not specifically protected from the heat, and their brains must be 
starting to overheat. She had discussed this once with Jack, and after some 
thought they had decided that the brains were overheated, but continued to 
function, until the movements of the bodies stopped. What the longpig was 
thinking however was difficult to find out, and Esther had decided to run 
some tests, as soon as she could lay her hands on a few meat animals: cooking 
them partially, stopping and releasing them from the spit, interviewing them, 
restarting the cooking etc. It would make a nice experiment, and she was 
looking forward to it.
Half an hour later the movements of the longpigs had died out, and they 
clearly were dead meat now. The body-builders cut open the abdomens of the 
roasting longpigs, to expose the innards to the fire, and the fine smell of 
cooking hung all over the place.
Two hours later, everything was ready, and the longpigs ware taken from their 
spits, shoved on a table, and cut to pieces by the cook.
Everybody started to queue for vegetables, meat and sauces, and the 
atmosphere became quite enjoyable. The wine was very good, and the more 
formal discussions of the afternoon were being replaced by just silly 
nonsensical talks, which was so important in building up relations and 
planning big things.
Jack took a slice of fillet from both the blonde and the negress, and 
discovered that they tasted a bit different, but essentially the same. It 
confimed his opinion that all people were essentially the same: if you 
couldn't taste a difference, why, then there was no difference.
He discussed this with his neighbour, a sturdy man, called Edgard, who said 
he had also discovered that there was little difference in the taste of the 
meat, but he thought different flavours could be distinguished between 
different races.
But those differences could also be caused by different training and feeding 
of the meat animals. The discussion went on in an humorous manner, and both 
men went back for a few more samples of leg and breast meat.
At the end of the day, the leftovers were cleared from the tables, and the 
bones of the meat animals were fed to hungry dogs in their large kennel.
It had been an enjoyable, fine day.
(Original edited by Spitman)