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A Spiritual Perspective - Home Page of Wade Frazier
Margaret, guided the trap expertly through an open gate and into the quadrangle, slowing the team a she did so. The surface changed from gravel to concrete and so did the sound of the ponies' hooves which now rang out with a harsh, clatter which echoed slightly from the surrounding stone walls. I looked closely and the flash of silver on the soles of their boots revealed what the sound suggested; that they were all shod in horseshoes. For a moment, I wondered why on earth Margaret would go to that much trouble, but then it hit me; the sound was every bit a part of their subjugation as the harness, the gags and the absolute control she exerted over every other aspect of their existence. The sound their feet made on the concrete was exactly the same as that which biological horses made; it was psychological reinforcement of their status as animals. I was impressed anew at the attention to detail Margaret showed in her slave-keeping.
As the trap drew to halt in the centre of the concrete quadrangle I could see it was a positive hive of activity after the rainy desertion of the surrounding countryside and the drive from the gate. Off to one side was a young black girl, no more than 17 or 18, very smartly turned out in jodhpurs, with calf-length riding boots, a tweed jacket and a blouse with a high, white stock; the very image of an upper class English horsewoman. The outfit did not particularly flatter her figure which was fairly full, with wide hips and a buxom chest straining against the buttons of her jacket. Her face was round and flat with dark, deeply-set eyes, while her tightly-curled hair was gathered at the back of her head in a net. She wore brown leather riding gloves, gripping a crop in one hand and a taut leash in the other which was connected to the nose ring of a tall male pony. This one looked to be in his late twenties and rather less experienced than those in the team pulling our carriage. For a start his hide hadn't been stained and the mohican haircut looked very new, the short strip of hair flanked by the bright white of the shaved sides. As with the others, his arms were secured behind him in a tight leather glove, a tail protruded from his rear and his genitals were firmly secured pointing backwards between his legs. The girl had evidently been correcting him as his rump and the backs of his thighs were extensively marked with fresh red weals left by crop or whip. He tried to turn his head to look at us as we came to a halt, but was prevented from doing so by a sharp jerk on the taut leash which forced him to bend forwards.
Ignoring Malcolm and myself, she raised her hand to Margaret and greeted her; "hello, Ma'am."
"Hello, Anita," replied Margaret as we alighted from the trap. "How is your project going?" she asked, nodding to the pony.
"Quite well, Ma'am, but slowly. I've just been in the ring training him on the leading rein, but he's a slow learner. He's either stupid or disobedient."
Margaret laughed, "he's clever enough, Anita," he said as she picked up her crop again and beckoned another girl who had just emerged from one of the buildings,"he's just a typical male; lazy and defiant. Remember your lessons from school, these are basic male psychological traits and need to be broken if they manifest."
Anita was nodding and looking chagrined. "Of course!" she exclaimed. "I should know that, I did those courses when I was thirteen!" She sounded embarrassed and apologetic.
"Don't worry," said Margaret, "you'll get the hang of it. Theory and a few classroom demonstrations are all very well, but they're no substitute for real experience and that's why you're here with me. Now, water him and settle him in his stall, but don't feed him. See if that helps his attitude tomorrow morning. If not, then we'll go over some other options."
"Thank you, Ma'am," said Anita before turning and pulling the pony with her by his nose.
By this time Malcolm and I had climbed down from the trap and the girl our hostess had beckoned was standing waiting patiently. She was dressed identically to Anita; I could only assume the girls were the grooms Margaret had referred to and that this was their uniform. It suited this girl more than it had Anita; she was much more slightly built, petite and blonde with a narrow, delicate face, big blue eyes and a blonde braid that was coiled in a net at the nape of her neck. Her eyes flicked across us, registering some degree of curiosity, but also a coldness that was almost glacial. It was evident she considered us beneath her concern.
"Ah, Phillipa," said Margaret, "I need you to do a couple of things for me."
The girl's eyes lingered coldly on us, a slight sneer playing about her lips."
"Phillipa!" Margaret said sharply, "please be more polite; these are my guests. Your full attention, please!"
Phillipa jumped slightly, her eyes snapping to Margaret's face, Malcolm and I momentarily forgetten.
"Now, please unharness the ponies and make sure my guests' things are taken to their rooms."
"And Phillipa," Margaret continued as the girl turned to leave.
"I think Primrose needs to be covered again. She has been quite skittish."
"Which stallion shall I use, Ma'am?" asked the girl.
"Well, which one do you think, Phillipa?"
Phillipa, thought for a moment; "I might say Bandit, Ma'am, as he hasn't had any release for over 4 months now. But his attitude to the saddle still leaves a lot to be desired and I don't want to reward that. Instead, I'd like to try Mustard. It will be his first time and he hasn't had relief since he was captured 3 months ago. He's not the obvious choice, but I think he's become quite docile. So much so that I think he might have the makings of a girl's pony."
"Excellent, Phillipa, I like your thinking. You have the makings of a good pony trainer," said Margaret. I could see Phillipa was pleased with the praise. "Now, get it organised, I'll check with you later how it went."
"Very well, Ma'am," nodded Phillipa. She turned on her heel grabbed the reins of the lead pair of the trap team and, snapping her crop against the animal's buttock, she lead them towards the stable on the other side of the yard.
"These girls are my grooms," she said apropos of nothing, watching as Phillipa unhooked Primrose from the traces and led him into the stable. "They are the daughters of fellow Sorority members and as such are born, raised and educated to dominance and control."
"They certainly seem to know what they are doing," I replied, unwilling to allow myself to feel uneasy at her words. More than on any other occasion since my induction into this new world of slaves and their owners, I felt as though I was 'though the looking glass'; in uncharted and threatening territory.
Margaret looked at me;"oh they do," she said. "All are graduates of the Sorority's schools which teach subjects and skills very much absent from most conventional curriculums, but equip them to further our organisation's aims. I simply provide girls with an interest in controlling males in this way," she gestured to the stables around us, "with practical experience."
"Like Anita's project?" asked Malcolm.
"Exactly," Margaret replied, " she has been involved in his control from the very beginning. She identified him from a pool of possible candidates, last year; I think he was a teacher of some kind. Then she planned and took part in his capture before he was brought here for training as she'd chosen."
"What will happen when she's finished?" I enquired
"He's her pony to do with as she will. She'll pay me to keep him here or take him away and house him somewhere else. She might even sell him, it's entirely up to her."
Despite my resolution, I could feel a chill at the base of my spine. In the Group we kept and disposed of slaves in much the same way, but most of us still saw them as people; that was one of the reasons we enjoyed it; power over our fellow human beings. This was different. There was something in these women that suggested the hapless males in their care were nothing more than animals to them. It felt like a paradigm shift and a highly erotic yet dangerous one at that!
"Shall we go down to the paddock?" said Margaret, "there a good selection of stock for you to look at there, Malcolm."
He nodded his acquiescence and turned heading off by Helen's side along a poured concrete path that lead between two of the stable blocks and out of the courtyard. Not without a little trepidation, I followed them.
How I Developed my Spiritual Perspective
[T]he almost-seven-year-old Elizabeth in "In the Waiting Room" experiencesnot a Wordsworthian sense of cosmic embrace, but rather the alternating terrors of acentripetal force that squashes her together with other people (her aunt, whose scream"from inside" seems to be her own, the woman in the with "awful hanging breasts") along with a centrifugal force thatthreatens to spin her off "into cold, blue-black space."
My Early Paranormal Experiences
As I mentioned, the latest Remnant podcast is up. I covered some of the same material above in a bit of a rantier-than-usual stream of consciousness. But I also made room for calling out John Podhoretz, Sonny Bunch, Rich Lowry, and all of these people determined to take me down a notch. Also, as promised, we finally got around to a reading of some (PG-rated) Bigfoot Erotica. The podcast is doing well, and I’m grateful to everyone who’s given it a shot. I do have one request: We’re doing great in terms of downloads. But it seems like a disproportionate share of people are listening through the podcast’s NRO page. It would be great for me in all sorts of ways if you could actually subscribe on iTunes, Stitcher, or the like so that a) you never miss an episode and b) we get our subscription numbers more in line with downloads.