Late for an Important Date
Jenny was late. That was one of the perks of being the
daughter of Michael Redcliff, the millionaire oil tycoon; it meant you could
get away with almost anything. Today she was late for riding classes.
Normally, an instructor would visit their stables and
tutor her one-on-one. On this particular day, she had been ousted from her bed
at a ludicrously early hour and packed off to the countryside. Her father had
personally recommended the Albrecht Stables, which had meant she’d had to
journey for four hours in his personal limo, to the depths of Lincolnshire, for
a week’s instructor training. She hadn’t wanted to come and had no intention of
actually becoming an instructor in the arts of horsemanship, far too fond of
lazing in bed until midday and then shopping and partying until the wee hours
of the morning. Her father had insisted that she take this course, however,
mainly due to the fact that his mistress was arriving tomorrow and he had
wanted the house to himself. He’d threatened to cut her allowance if she didn’t
attend, so there hadn’t been a choice in the matter.
Staring out of the window, whilst sipping Crystal,
Jenny thought that her week was going to be one of the most boring on record.
She was to lodge at the ‘Pony Rides Hotel’ and by all accounts the night life
nearby was not some of the most exhilarating. There was always the possibility
that a cute guy would be taking the course but if that failed, she’d probably
play hooky and sneak back down to London. She’d lifted her father’s credit card
from his wallet before leaving and as he had so many, there was little chance
of him noticing.
‘We’re here, Miss Redcliff,’ a nod from the driver.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ said Jenny, her mouth
dropping in horror. The ‘Pony Rides Hotel’ looked like something out of ‘Anne
of Green Gables.’ The building featured traditional wood panels, ornate
woodwork and looked ridiculously old-fashioned. Whoever named the hotel should
be shot, she thought, because already she was imagining snotty-nosed children
running around, yelling and screaming or demanding ice-cream.
Without a word of thanks, Jenny waited for the
chauffeur to open her door and carry her bags, all eight of them, to the reception
desk. She took her own sweet time, admiring her reflection in a monogrammed
silver compact mirror, before sauntering casually inside.
There was no-one at the reception desk when she
entered, which gave her a few moments to look around. The hotel was
surprisingly quiet, the only noise being traditional piped music from the
internal stereo system and the rustle of papers from the office directly behind
the desk. There was an almost overpowering smell of wood polish, which
explained the glossy wood floors below her, which, strangely, didn’t seem to
have a single mark upon them. At least they valued cleanliness, Jenny thought.
Exploring further, she found several sparkling silver trophies which were
mounted in a glass display case located at the back of the hotel lobby and
walls which appeared to be adorned with an impressive array of riding crops and
some very unusual leather tack. Stepping forward to take a closer look, she was
interrupted by the receptionist who had returned to her post at the desk.
‘Oh, hello there,’ said a very cultured voice,
appearing surprised at having a guest waiting for her.
This must be some hotel, thought Jenny, if it was a
shock every time a guest walked in. Wrinkling her nose in distaste she handed
over her reservation number.
Running a manicured finger down the paperwork quickly,
the receptionist lifted her head slowly and stared at Jenny directly. ‘I’m
sorry no-one was here to greet you but your check-in time appears to have been
three hours ago.’ There was a frown, some frantic fingernail tapping and a
pause.
Jenny rolled her eyes in disgust. What sort of hotel
was this? ‘Look,’ she said, ‘have you got a room for me or not?’
The elegantly-coiffed receptionist seemed taken aback
for a minute, as if she didn’t normally deal with complaints, but recovered her
composure swiftly. ‘Oh we have lots of room for you, Miss Redcliff. Let me just
see if I can get a few things rescheduled and we’ll get you checked in
promptly. Please take a seat.’ She didn’t wait for a thank-you, which was just
as well, as none appeared forthcoming.
Pouting and already bored with the day’s events so far,
Jenny took a seat and sighed loudly. The receptionist was speaking into her
telephone and made no notion of having heard her. Twiddling the Tiffany locket
she wore in her fingertips, she wondered if she shouldn’t ring one of her
friends and have them rescue her. She had already decided the week was going to
be intolerably dull, there would be nothing except horses for entertainment and
as of yet, she hadn’t seen a bar. What did people do here after the day’s
training? Eat and go to bed? There was something else she’d noticed too: the
restaurant had no Michelin star. They probably served up soggy fish and chips
and if you were lucky you might get a three day old gooey mass of bread and
butter pudding for dessert. Jenny grimaced. She had just entered Hell for a
week, she was sure of it. When the receptionist beckoned for her to come over
not five minutes later, Jenny could barely conceal her jaded look.
‘The ladies are ready for you now, Miss Redcliff, just
take the black door over by the potted palm and they’ll meet you on the other
side.’ The receptionist handed Jenny some paperwork. ‘You’ll need to take this
with you.’
Sighing again and wondering why she couldn’t just have
been given a room key, Jenny pointed to the chauffer and asked ‘Where should he
put my luggage?’ She had no idea what the man was called.
‘Ah, no need to worry about that, we’ll take care of it,
Miss Redcliff,’ came the very efficient answer and with a nod, the receptionist
smiled and released the chauffeur from any additional duties. He wasted no time
in leaving the premises, having already had more than enough of the younger
Redcliff’s whinging and whining for one day.
‘I hope you have a lovely stay with us,’ offered the
receptionist but Jenny had already flounced past her and had begun to pull open
the heavy, black, oak-panelled door.
The Tack Room
Jenny wasn’t sure what she was expecting when she
opened the door, but it certainly wasn’t two old ladies chatting away at the
end of a long, unlit and rather austere corridor. Peering down at the paperwork
in her hands, she attempted to read the small text but found that it was
impossible in the dim light.
‘Hello,’ she ventured, but the pair at the end of the
hall continued chatting animatedly and after trying an additional time, Jenny
finally decided that she’d had just about enough of this treatment. Did they
have any idea who they were dealing with? ‘Hello,’ she said yet again, but this
time much more sharply and was rewarded as both ladies turned around to stare
at her, mouths open wide. What was it with the people around here? Maybe they
were all completely insane, having lived in the country for far too long.
Finally, mouths snapping shut, the ladies turned around
to face her and smiled. The oldest one, who had greying hair in a bun of which
fizzy ends threatened to escape at any opportunity, began to speak.
‘Hello there, dearie, you must be Miss Redcliff I’m
thinking. Well, let me introduce myself. My name is Agnes and this here,’ she
pointed to her portly colleague, ‘is Henrietta. We’ll just need to take a few
measurements from you in order to get you started. It’s a real shame you’re
late because you could be out in the paddock by now having fun with all the
other fillies if you’d turned up just a smidgeon earlier. Ah well, can’t be
helped. Traffic was it?’
‘Something like that,’ murmured Jenny, when it had in
fact been a leisurely long breakfast at one of London’s most expensive dining
establishments followed by a spa detour involving a manicure, pedicure and hour
long aromatherapy massage.
Henrietta nodded. ‘Well, if you would just like to
follow us for a moment, we’ll get you back on tack in a jiffy.’ She laughed at
her own joke.
Jenny was beginning to think that the staff at this
hotel were either completely mad, or very nearly. Fillies in fields? Back on
tack? Was it possible that they were living in an alternate universe?
Henrietta, her red hair pinned up with numerous
coloured pencils which stuck out at random angles, ushered Jenny inside a room
which had ‘Pony Tack’ emblazoned across the door in red and black antique
lettering. There was so much leather inside, it wasn’t as if you were going to
mistake the room for any other use, thought Jenny wryly as she walked through
the open door. Interestingly, there was a bizarre brown leather horse
contraption centred in the middle of the room with leather straps of varying
sizes hanging off it at different intervals. What on earth was that used for?
As if that wasn’t enough, there were literally hundreds of shiny black leather
bits in a large cardboard box to the far left, another box housed an impressive
stack of black and orange rubber balls and yet another box was filled with
yards and yards of coarse long black hair.
‘What do you think?’ asked Henrietta who was smiling
broadly and displaying a rather yellowed set of teeth. ‘It’s lovely isn’t it?
Our tack comes from all around the world and some choice pieces take over three
months to make. Have a good look around and do let me know if there is anything
in particular you’d like. Oh, can I just have a look at your paperwork,
sweetie?’
Jenny barely heard her as her gaze had settled on a row
of wooden shelving at the front of the room containing leather circlets. Were
they collars? As Henrietta held out a hand for the paperwork, she handed it
over silently. They weren’t collars for horses because they were far too small.
Some of the collars were very deep in width; some were barely a centimetre
wide; others featured metal spikes, large D rings and ropes of silver chain in
several degrees of thickness and length. The collars were made in colours
ranging through white, yellow, blue, green, coral, red and black. Spinning
around to the rear of the room, nervous adrenaline beginning to pump through
her body, she noted both black leather and PVC boots, most of which were
knee-high with the remainder being so long they had to be thigh high. Most
featured intricate lacing and gleaming metal eyelets, had platform heels of at
least 5cm in height and a few even contained metal ‘U’ shaped horseshoes on the
underside of the sole. Her eyes began to bulge in their sockets as reality
began to set in. This was not a tack room for horses. All of this equipment had
been designed with humans in mind.
‘I, ah, think there has been some kind of mistake,’
said Jenny rather breathlessly as she angled her body to the door, spying
leather cuffs and black pony masks hanging above the frame.
Agnes gave her colleague a narrowed look. ‘What does
the paperwork say under ‘status,’ Henrietta?’
‘Hmm,’ Henrietta hadn’t been paying much attention to
Jenny until now, sorting through a box of bridles and martingales that had
become tangled on her bench but a quick look up at her latest trainee had her
eyes frantically searching the page in front of her for the required
information. ‘It says ‘Subject has not been notified.’
Jenny had just at that moment found an enormously large
collection of rubber ovals, tapering at both ends and rather fat in the middle.
She was not a complete idiot. She’d browsed through sex catalogues on occasion
and was fairly certain that these were what were termed as ‘butt plugs.’
Alarmingly, quite a few of them had long black tails attached to their flat end.
That was enough to send her over the edge.
In the next instant she screamed and dashed for the door.
‘We have a bolter,’ said Agnes. ‘Batten down the
hatches.’
Silenced and Measured for Size
Henrietta was
already ahead of her, having pressed a button by her bench which slammed the door
shut and locked it. It had come in useful on more than one occasion. Not all
the occupants at this facility were willing, but they all had one thing in
common. They paid a very large sum of money to be here. Exactly how much
depended on their circumstances, but Henrietta managed in one glance to see the
figure of £500,000 standing out on the form in bold black numbers. It seemed
that Mr Redcliff really, really,
wanted his daughter to get the full works.
Agnes grabbed one of Jenny’s arms and let Henrietta
take the other. They’d practised the move many times before and, as usual, it
went like clockwork. Mind you, they’d not come across anyone with a black belt
in Karate yet, so there was always the possibility that a filly might escape
one day. It was very unlikely, but not impossible. Unfortunately for Jenny, she
had no such training in martial arts. As soon as Henrietta bent one of her arms
around behind her back and up towards her neck, the pain nearly crippled her
and she almost fell to her knees.
‘There, there, dearie. Play nicely and we’ll not have
to use those sorts of tactics on you again,’ Agnes said in a soothing tone.
Agnes didn’t think much of doling out pain, she left that to the various
Mistresses and Masters who made the very act an art form. Agnes was in this job
because she loved leather and because the pay was extremely good. She intended
to have a retirement home in the south of France in a couple of years,
hopefully complete with a fully trained pony of her own.
Henrietta took one look at Agnes and rolled her eyes.
The old dear was day-dreaming yet again. ‘Agnes, Agnes!’
Agnes shook her head momentarily. ‘Hmm?’
‘I thought we might let our new filly take a brief
rest. What say you?’ Henrietta eyed the horse purposefully.
‘Oh, good idea, Hetty,’ said Agnes, immediately
following her train of thought and together they began to pull Jenny in the
direction of the leather horse.
Jenny was not going to have any of that. Kicking and clawing,
scratching and biting, she let out a scream that could have broken all the
windows in the neighbouring village. It didn’t do her any good. Agnes simply
yanked the arm she had imprisoned back upwards and Henrietta lifted the girl
off her feet and tried to gently deposit her on the horse. With a straggle of
limbs doing the spaghetti dance, it didn’t work quite the way it was intended
and Jenny landed on her back with rather a good thump. If it were possible, the
screaming intensified.
The ladies wasted no time applying the straps which
would hold the trainee down. Agnes took care of her ankles, making neat loops
with the leather and yanking them tight until they were aligned with the legs
of the horse. Henrietta worked at more than twice the speed, managing two arms,
a body strap around the waist, one around the neck and another circling the
forehead. Reaching down to pull a lever beneath the horse, she split the bottom
half in two, splaying Jenny’s legs neatly. The trainee’s movement was now
limited to around two inches of leeway from one side to the other. Pulling one
of the pencils out of her unruly chignon, she made sure that the width of the
pencil could easily be fitted inside each restraint. They took safety very
seriously at the Pony Rides Hotel and she wasn’t going to be the first to lose
a victim by choking them accidentally. ‘We’re good,’ she finally announced,
having to yell over the screeching noise that Jenny will still making.
Agnes tossed Hetty some wax earplugs and applied her
own. They wouldn’t need them in a few moments, but measurements had to be taken
and it was murder on your eardrums to listen to that kind of noise for any
length of time. She then proceeded to get out her tape measure and bending over
Jenny’s face began to measure the exact length of her lips. The trainee tried
to bite her, which was expected and Hetty responded by giving her a sharp,
stinging slap which stilled her movements for long enough to get the required
information. It looked as though this one would require the petite selection of
rubber bit gags, which was quite unusual and might even make her highly prized
if someone managed to train her properly. Agnes wrote the details down in her
notebook and added a tongue port for good measure. A tongue port was a great
piece of kit which fitted over the bit gag and ensured that a) no intelligible
speech would be heard from the pony and b) it prevented the pony’s tongue from
playing with the bit in any way. She suspected that the lucky trainer would
need all the help they could get in the mastering of this filly. Taking
measurements around Jenny’s head for bridle, blinker and blindfold attachments,
she quickly finished her notes and began rummaging around in the drawer next to
her. Spotting a small orange ball gag with a simple black leather strap, she
wasted no time pressing it into Jenny’s lips.
Unsurprisingly Jenny didn’t let the invasive object in
willingly and it was Hetty who pinched her nostrils together and waited for her
to draw breath, which in turn allowed Agnes to apply enough pressure to push
the ball inside her mouth. The strap was quickly fastened around her head by
means of a single buckle. All screaming abruptly ceased, to be replaced with a
muffled groaning noise of a much more acceptable volume. As if frustrated by
the lack of noise she was able to make, the trainee increased her struggles to
virtually no effect with the tight restraints binding her.
Fishing her earplugs out and throwing them in the
general direction of the bin, Hetty sighed. ‘That’s better. Are you getting the
scissors out or am I?’ she asked. Agnes didn’t reply. Shaking her head, she
tapped her on the arm and pointed to her ears. Agnes got the message.
‘Sorry Hetty, did you say something?’
‘I said, are you getting the scissors or shall I?’
Henrietta made cutting motions with her fingers.
‘Oh, right. I’ll do it and you can write down the
details, if that’s alright. Hetty didn’t bother to respond, searching around
for her pencil which had somehow disappeared. Pulling out another one from her
hair, she frowned as a curly red tendril flopped onto her cheek. Eyeing it with
displeasure she said, ‘I need a haircut.’
Agnes picked up a pair of dress making shears and
raised her eyebrows enquiringly.
‘From a professional, dear,’ said Hetty in response. ‘Now
get to work, no dilly dallying. We’re off schedule by three hours already,
heaven help us if we delay the lass any further. Her ass will be redder than a
strawberry.’
Agnes didn’t need to be told twice and began cutting
through the fabric of Jenny’s jeans, starting from the bottom and working her
way up. She cut a long slice through the entire left side of the jeans and then
began on the right, humming as she did so.
Jenny was almost positive this had to be a nightmare.
If it wasn’t, her dad would be notified soon enough and would make sure that
these idiots paid handsomely for their mistake. This sort of thing didn’t
happen in this day and age. She had rights. She wanted a lawyer and a very
heavy baseball bat, not necessarily in that order. Tied down to the table and
gagged, she was only just holding herself together. Please, dear God, she
prayed, don’t let it get any worse. That was before they started cutting away
her clothes.
