Fucking hell Julian! Did I just see the God dam police here?

 

It’s not right Gerald. It’s just not the same any more. I’m bored with all this.

 

Say what?

 

Twenty three years we’ve been doing this. Twenty three years of working our arses off to host the annual Welsh Ponygirl Racing Championship. And it’s all gone to shit.

 

Err, Julian. The police?

 

Relax Gerald. They weren’t looking for you.

 

Well thank the Good Lord for that. I had to leave Birmingham, Alabama ‘coz the law were taking too much interest in me. And now that I’m 80 miles from Birmingham, England, I’m getting to kinda like this little bitty country of yours, and it would be a mighty shame to have to leave. Even though you English are far too up-tight about firearms.

 

Back in the old days, it was all something special. It took time and dedication to have, or to be a ponygirl, and to seek out like minded others to race with. We had to make our own gear. All the harnesses, bridles and traps. Hell, Carry-Anne even made her own hoof boots. I remember welding bits of bicycle frame together to make a sulky, and she used to spend hours and hours pulling it about, getting herself strong and learning to read the bit. Nowadays these fuckers here think they can just order some cheap set of straps and stupid looking boots off the internet, and turn up here to play at being ponies for the afternoon, having dropped the kids off at Grandma’s on the way. They prance around for a few hours, making themselves feel horny and then fuck off to pick up their kids and go back to the checkout at Tesco on Monday morning. Where’s the challenge or the dedication in that? Fucking Sunday Shires.

 

Back home in the US of A, we used to call them Weekend Walkaloosas.

 

And there’s so fucking many of them. Back when we started, we had four sulkies racing and that was it. Eight ponies, four drivers and about twenty people watching. And boy did we race. How many people are here today? Bloody hundreds. And that’s why the police were here. Somebody down in the village complained about all the traffic.

 

God dam but I love this country of yours. You hold a ponygirl racing event and the police turn up. Are they interested in sexual abuse, possible kidnapping, slavery or rape? No. In England the police are interested in whether there’s too much traffic in the village.

 

It’s Wales Gerald. We’re in Wales.

 

Whatever. Wales is in England ain’t it?

 

Well next year it’s going to be different. There’s a few of us “oldies” are going to show the Weekend Whatevers how it’s done. We’re going to bring in a new class, a sort of Formula One of ponygirl racing. Something these fucking amateur idiots will only be able to marvel at.

 

Oh yeah?

 

Yeah. The Formula One class rules will be so strict that it will take real dedication for the pony to even fit into the gear, let alone walk and run and race in it. The Sunday Shires’ minds will blow as they realise that this isn’t just some casual hobby, but a whole, full time lifestyle. We’ll start with the boots. Hoof boots for sure, but small, dainty hooves at the toes, with the foot vertical. That lot out there today wouldn’t even be able to stand up in them. Then long, muscular legs that go up to a beautiful, shapely body. A body with a tiny, corseted waist. I read somewhere that ladies at the court of Henry the Eighth had to have no more than a fifteen inch waist, so maybe that should be our rule too. And sewn into the corset will be a rigid strip of steel, running in a lovely curve from buttock to neck, holding our pony in a delicious pose with her bottom stuck out and leaning forward so that her butt plug tail erupts from her at a pleasing angle. And her arms will be strapped up high behind her back, maybe a reverse prayer, and of course the elbows must be touching or else no racing. And to get a bit more power and speed, they’ll race in pairs, two ponies to a sulky. Side by side, linked together by a solid clamp thing at their waists that has no give or flex in it, so the ponies will have to learn to move in unison.

 

I’m getting hard just imagining this.

 

Yeah, but here comes the best bit. Our new ponies will be nipple driven.

 

Nipple driven? Gees, what the fuck is that gonna be?

 

The reins won’t go to a bit harness, but instead will be connected to nipple clamps. To go forward, or faster, both nipples will be pulled together. To turn left, the right nipple gets pulled more. To turn right, the left nip gets pulled. To stop or go backwards, the nips will be pushed back into the boobs. Nipple driven.

 

That sounds a bit complicated to set up.

 

Nah. Just need a harness strapped tightly round the base of the breasts and a couple of levers to the clamps. No big deal to do. Or we could use radio control servos connected straight to the clamps. Whatever we use, the pony will be VERY keen to obey don’t you think?

 

Err, I would think so.

 

And because they’ll be nipple driven, they won’t need to see anything. Forget those stupid blinkers that you see on tacky pony headgear, our Formula One ponies will wear full hoods. Tightly laced over their whole heads, with only a couple of little holes under the nostrils. Probably a big ball in their mouths too, so the Sunday Shires can see a nice, round bulge and know it’s there, filling the mouth under the hood completely. And of course, a super long ponytail coming out of the back of the hood that is secured to the waist clamp, keeping the pony’s head held back. What a spectacle it’ll be. And everyone will know that these ponies are the real deal. Everyone will see that to be shaped like this and to move and race like this, the ponies must live the life completely. They must train every day and endure such pain and discomfort to be the best. And the Sunday Shires will be jealous. They’ll wonder about how long it takes to learn to run, unable to see and guided only by the tugging at their nipples. They’ll think about their boring, mundane little lives, and their cheap, naff Anne Summers bridles, and they’ll long to be a real pony, but they won’t be brave or dedicated enough to do it. Ponygirl racing will be special again.

 

Well Julian, I never heard me a tale as much fun as that, since my Granddaddy told me how he was going to take down his neighbour’s gomer bull with a Kimber Custom Defense. But I can think of a little, teeny tiny problem with your grand scheme. You want to have a load of girls and bind ‘em up tight so they can hardly breathe, put ‘em in boots that would make a witch confess, lace ‘em into hoods so they can’t see, and then train ‘em to race by yanking in on their poor little nipples? And you want to do this day after day after day? Permanently? Now just where in tarnation are you going to find girls willing to put themselves through that?

 

Well that’s the beauty of the plan Gerald. When we take the Formula One ponygirls out racing, they’ll be hooded so no-one can see who they are, and they’ll be gagged so they can’t speak, and harnessed up so tight they won’t be able to move about, unless it’s to race, right? So who says they have to be willing?

 

Oh yeah man, I like this plan.