Dmitri and Stefan moved up to first place. The slave pulling Dmitri’s chariot was Bastian, another of the King’s own team. I wondered if the slaves hated this particular duty as they wore such plain brown harnesses with only a little brass here and there—nothing like the full dress when they pulled a carriage or chariot for the King.
Suddenly the trumpet sounded and Dmitri swung the paddle driving Stefan onto the path. I couldn’t see if Stefan’s cock was at attention, but I had seen it earlier and it was splendidly huge and red.
Off they went, Stefan marching with knees high and shoulders back, smacked again and again as they moved off and around the curve.
I listened attentively and could hear the distant roar of the crowd around the royal banquet table soon enough.
There were many slaves ahead of us now but César was brought forward and stationed to my right. He was now weeping frantically, and the groom again wiped his face.
César’s backside was barely pink from whatever discipline he’d had that day. But his skin was tough, tough from years of the paddle and the strap, and I knew I had to paddle him hard to make the slightest impression and that I was prepared to do.
The leather paddle was long and broad and just the right weight. In the old days these paddles had been strapped to the arms of the lords and ladies who drove their slaves, but now we merely held tight to the handles. And there was a spare paddle in every chariot in case somehow one’s paddle was dropped. I never saw anyone drop a paddle.
With a little time to kill, I jumped down and went up to Brenn. He was weeping as copiously as César. I checked his harnesses to make sure nothing was chafing. He wore a butt plug with a small decoration of flowers like all the ponies, and a long plain horse’s tail of black to match his hair.
“Now what’s all this sobbing?” I asked, but that only made him cry more. “You and César make a splendid picture. And I want pride now, not weeping.” He did his best to straighten up.
I checked the bit between his teeth and it was perfect, soft, but good enough size, and of course connected properly to the reins.
“You set the pace,” I said. “And César won’t dare to outrun you.” I kissed him and his eyes closed and then he glanced at me and I kissed him on his eyelids. “You’re a lovely colt,” I said. “Just the most beautiful.” I rubbed his hair.
I went to César.
“Now, I’m going to pound that backside of yours,” I said, “but you keep to the pace set by Brenn, you understand, no matter how hard I whip you.”
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“And let me tell you a little secret. When you find yourself running before the royal dais, when you hear the cheers of the Court, you’ll love it. You’ll stick out your chest and pick up your knees like never before.”
I didn’t wait to see all the tears that would gush after that, but got back in the chariot and took the paddle in hand.
Up ahead I saw Valentine spanked up to the starting line by Elena, who was a vision of sweetness in her black gown as she held the reins of her chariot in her left hand.
When the trumpet sounded, Valentine hesitated, but the paddle sent him scurrying forward and they were soon off, pounding down the path, Elena swinging the paddle lustily and Valentine running as if for his life.
A memory came back to me of being driven along the path in the last year of my time with Queen Eleanor—by the cold Lady Elvera who had been Laurent’s mistress of those years. She was as sedate then as she was now. I knew she’d be at the banquet table on the dais. She always was. And I reflected helplessly on how very different everything was now.
Lord Gregory was forever seeking these days to draw her into his little world of grumblings and forebodings and bitter complaints: too much laxity; too much pampering; not enough maintenance of the hard and fast rules; not enough silence, isolation, hard punishment, and the like.
Lady Elvera tolerated him but she was more than content. She had the remote severity of the old queen.
We were nearing the starting line.
Only one chariot was before us, carrying the Grand Duke André in all his predictable splendor and, standing beside him, his precious slave, Princess Braelyn, who had been serving him for a year when Laurent and Beauty had come. She had a warm ruddy complexion and a wealth of reddish-blond hair. It was gorgeous as it fell down her back. The Bridle Path was nothing new to her. But I wondered what it meant to her to see so many new faces, new slaves, new courtiers.
We pulled up right behind them and I heard the Grand Duke, in his soothing voice, tell her that she must put on a special show tonight or she would disappoint him, but this was all the usual banter. He adored her.
When the trumpet sounded, he spanked her with a force quite remarkable for such an elderly man.
Off they went and we were in first place. I could hear César’s sobs and I told him firmly to be quiet.
“Close your lips, as if you have a bit between your teeth!” I gave him a hard spank, but it was like hitting granite. Nevertheless he jumped as he always did, and he did quiet down. Veteran ponies can be remarkably sensitive to blows delivered by particular persons while becoming insensible to the endless whacking of drivers and grooms.
At last the trumpeter lifted his horn. There came the clear musical blast, and with a great hard blow I went after César, pounding him at least a good six times before we’d moved but a few yards. The reins were tight in my left hand.
Brenn ran as fast as he could, and César effortlessly kept up with him, and what a splendid pair they were.
Over and over I pounded César’s hard backside, determined to make him feel something, and on he ran.
Suddenly we were nearing the royal dais and I could see the King had risen to his feet. He gave a cheerful wave to his favorites and blew them kisses, and a great roar went up from the crowd like a breaker on a wintry beach.
On the other side of the track was another dais, on which many were gathered, privileged to be directly opposite the King and Queen. And they too were roaring and cheering.
I paddled César harder than I’d ever paddled a slave in my life. He was running beautifully and so was Brenn. How that hard little butt plug must have jiggled inside Brenn’s backside. I had no idea what it meant to run like this with a horse tail phallus or a plug inside me. My world had been made up of quieter things.
The royal pavilion was soon behind us. On and on we went past the countless smaller pavilions and tables, the waving arms and the eager faces, and finally we were in the last few yards before the new stables for the end of Bridle Path and the grooms waiting to attend both slaves.
As soon as I jumped down from the chariot, I took César in my arms. He was utterly broken down. I told him to embrace me and he did put his head on my shoulder and sobbed.
“You were magnificent!” I said.
A groom appeared and told us that César had to hurry, that the King wanted César rubbed with gold and mounted on a cross in the garden for the rest of the night.
Desperately his powerful hands clutched my shoulders.
But I pulled back and wiped his face quickly with my linen handkerchief and told him to do exactly as he was told. This had never happened to him before, being bound to a decorative cross in the gardens, and I knew he was afraid.
“In a few moments, you’ll be strapped firmly in place,” I told him, “just as firmly as ever you’ve been strapped to a chariot or cart, and then you can close your eyes and drift.”
“Drift, my lord? What does it mean to drift?”
I laughed. “To doze and dream,” I said. “Now go.”
Brenn had been completely unharnessed and thrown over a huge overturned barrel to be scrubbed and bathed. He lay still with his eyes closed.
I waited until they had thoroughly dried him and then, unhooking the collar and leash from my belt, I went to him and told him to kneel for the collar. I snapped the leash to it, and told him he must walk before me, as the ground here was too rough for his knees.
“The Queen wants you for her pet tonight,” I said. “They want to show you to their new guest, Lexius. Have you ever heard his name?”
“No, my lord,” he answered. He was still winded and tired but clearly very at ease.
“Well, you will find him very pleasing to please,” I said. “Your bottom’s not red enough. But I won’t spank you till we reach the garden.”
“Yes, my lord,” he said.
“And how was it for you, your first time pulling a chariot on the Bridle Path?”
“I hope I pleased, my lord,” he said predictably enough. “I was running as fast as I was able. I knew César would run fast.”
“You did well,” I said.
When we reached the soft grass and carpets of the gardens, I ordered him down on his knees. I found a deserted table beneath a huge oak, somewhat out of the way of all the festivities, and I turned him over my knee and spanked his pretty quivering backside hard with the paddle I still carried till he was the perfect shade for the Queen’s taste. After César’s granite bottom, it was nice to be paddling a slave who flinched and sobbed with every blow. But he was as perfect as any slave who’d been here for months or for years.
I put him down on his hands and knees again and pulled him along. He followed at my heel without the slightest urging. Puppy or pony, he was excellent.