Dec 062006
 

December 6, and I was sitting in the Fulton County graveyard. When I was a teen, this graveyard was the place to come to for losing your virginity. It was quiet, it was deserted, and best of all, it was a little creepy. It was just creepy enough that a nervous girl would curl up with you and fuck just to keep the unsettling specter of death away. It was a place where people fucked because they were not dead.

I understand that better now than I did when I was 16, but I don’t fuck here now. I stopped fucking here eight years ago, when beautiful Angela was hit by a drunk driver and they interred her shattered body here. Two weeks before Christmas, lovely Angela; who could take the worst spankings and ask for more, was put six feet under with just a marble stone to mark her spot in the world. “Beloved Daughter” is what the stone reads. It should read “Awesome Slut,” “Overachieving Masochist”and “Best Ass in Atlanta.” But of course, it says none of these things, which is why I come out here every December. It’s just my little way of telling Angela I remember.

To read more about this special night, click Whole Post

Don’t get the impression that I loved her. Let’s nip that shit right in the bud right here. Angela was a great piece of ass and swallowed every time, but I didn’t love her. Others loved her, and she had her boyfriends, but I wasn’t one of them. I just admired her for what she was — a slut who loved to be spanked and dominated. In a city that breeds girl with mental problems and daddy issues, Angela was a breath of hedonistic air. She was a pain slut, and for that alone, I come here every year to pay my respects.

I sat for a while and thought of the good times she’d had, of the cocks she had sucked and of the paddlings she had endured. After a while, I heard the roll of thunder. I thought it was rain at first, but I realized that the moon was too bright. There wasn’t a single cloud in the sky. It didn’t take long before I realized that the thunder wasn’t in the sky; it was coming from the ground.

I stood and watched as a crowd of women came running over the hill. There must have been hundreds of them. In the pale moonlight, I could see that they were all naked. Bare legs stomped through grass and dodged marble stones while breasts bounced on sweaty chests. They moved like a mad stampede, running as fast they could through the graveyard. As they came closer, I could hear their ragged moans. The sound was breathless, yet it conveyed so much damn pain.

That was when I saw their riders. I could see that the women were not completely naked, as each wore some sort of saddle on her shoulders. Each woman had a black creature riding there. You might call them demons, since they had pointy ears and sharp teeth that lined impossibly long smiles. They wielded long, nasty crops that they used to beat their human steeds. They had laced the women’s hair with rough ropes that the creatures then used as bridles. The demons’ feet had nasty spurs that they dug into the women’s chests and sides. The demons rode their women hard, and the women would never run fast enough.

The stampede of women and their infernal riders came right at me. I stood there, a bit shaken with fear. Not for my mortal soul, mind you. I was a Buddhist and had made my mother cry by giving up my Southern Baptist upbringing, so the thought of demon riders didn’t really make me fear for my soul. It was just the idea that I might get trampled by these beauties, who seemed to be running more in a panic than anything else.

I might have stood there and let them ride on past me except for one little detail. One of them ran by me, and I got a good look at her face. I saw those perfect blowjob lips, those wide, frightened blue eyes and of course, that long, gorgeous blond hair. It was Angela, and I saw a flash of recognition in her eyes before her damned rider dug its spurs into her round breasts and urged her on. I swear on her lips I could see her say my name.

Oh, hell, no. Demons or not, Christian or Buddhist, there was no fucking way someone was damning my Angela to an eternity of torment. Like I said, I didn’t love her, but shit, she was as big a slut as I was a dom, and I wasn’t going to let that stand.

I was fueled by anger more than anything else. I jumped on a tombstone and launched myself at the last woman running in the herd. The demon rider screamed as my bigger Southern male frame smashed into him. The demon flew off the saddle and skidded in the grass. As for me, I clung to the saddle horn, and the woman’s hair. He might be a demon, but I was a dom, and I knew how to grab a woman’s hair and hold onto it.

Don’t ask me how but I fit on the saddle. Don’t ask me how the 5-foot woman was able to carry my weight and keep running. For that matter, don’t ask me how a herd of naked women could carry demons on their backs at midnight in December. I’m guessing it was all magic. I didn’t give it much thought at the time, because quite frankly, I was pissed off. I was in the back of the herd, and Angela was near the front. I had to get a move on.

I bent down to my mount’s head. “Listen, slut,” I yelled. “I’m sorry if you’re a damned soul and all, but if you don’t move your ass faster, I am going to show you how a real man uses a crop.”

The woman, who was a cute brunette from what I saw of her, grunted and picked up the pace. She still wasn’t going fast enough. As soon as we came close to another woman, I reached over and smacked a very stunned looking demon rider. I snatched the crop right out of his hand and then beat him a few times with it. He fell off his mount and bounced off a tombstone. It sounded like a watermelon dropped on a sidewalk.

Armed with a crop, I now used it on the poor damned woman between my legs. I leaned back and smacked her backside as rapidly as I could. The crop felt great in my hand, with just the right grip and a wicked leather end. The only disturbing thing was that I noticed the woman had been branded on her ass. It was some sort of symbol that seemed to shift as I looked at it. Spooky.

I tightened my grip on the woman’s hair and kept striking her ass. “Faster,” I commanded.

She moaned. It was that same tortured moan I’d heard earlier. Damn if it didn’t make my cock hard.

I rode her hard and made progress through the herd. As we rode, I got a better look at the women. Some had their nipples pierced, and chains ran through the piercings to form more sadistic bridles. Others wore blindfolds made of leather, forced to run in darkness by their demented riders. Brands covered legs, arms and asses according to some hellish system I would never understand. And there was so much sweat. Sweat covered every body, glistening as though the women had been running for 100 years and would run 100 more.

The demon riders tried to stop me. Dumb bastards. You can’t stop an angry Southern boy, especially not when there is a girl involved. They struck at me with their crops. If I got too close, they would snap out and try to bite me. Their mounts helped, too, reaching out with jagged fingernails and pounding fists. They battered the shit out of me, but I held on to my bitch’s hair, and my legs stayed around her as tight as a slut holds onto her first cock. I tried to give back as good as I got, but there was so fucking many of them. It didn’t matter. Let them smack me around. I’m a dom who never uses a single toy without feeling it for himself. Crops, fists and teeth were just pain.

My bitch was gasping, but we finally got to the front of the herd. I didn’t recognize where we were. It smelled like Florida, and I realized that we must have been riding for hours. Hell, maybe days, it was hard to tell. All I cared about was we were finally close to Angela, and I was going to fucking save her.

The demon riding Angela was a big one. He was almost as tall as me. He had a smart-looking cowboy hat that was pure black. When he turned his head , his black eyes wrinkled up. I realized he was laughing at me.

“Well ridden, asshole,” he said. His voice carried across the wind and the moans. It sounded like brimstone falling down a mountainside.

“Thanks,” I said. Southern boys are always polite. “My name is Timothy Kyle Vance, and I aim to take that girl you’re riding. She was a friend of mine, and she deserves better than, you know, eternal damnation as a mount. You can give her up quietly, or I can beat the shit out of you. Don’t matter which to me.”

“All right, sure,” he said. “Did you hear that, Angela? This dickhead is here to save you.”

Angela turned her head. We were still running as fast as the wind, but my Angela turned her head and looked at me as we thundered across a railroad track. Tears were running down her face from the beatings she had been taking these eight years. She looked fucking exhausted, but there was something else in her face. It was fear. It wasn’t her rider she feared; it was the idea of being saved.

I looked back at the women behind me. On their faces, I saw something I should have seen earlier. Yeah, they were hurting, but it was a good hurt. They were exhausted, but it was the exhaustion that comes from being used to your limit and beyond. They were moaning, but these was the happy moans of sluts being used by their masters. These girls would be ridden forever, free from their parents’ judgments and free from ever again being told how wrong they were.

“I am a fucking idiot,” I yelled.

“Yes, you are!” the rider yelled. That’s when he cold-cocked me with a punch. I fell off my mount and landed face first in wet grass. The other riders stormed on by and yet none of them touched me. I looked up and watched those beautiful women run down the road and into the night.

I felt a sadness come over me, but not for them. No, I was sad for me. I got a glimpse of the heaven that waits for the sluts who never change their wicked ways. But what waits for the cruel men who love to wield the crop and the spur? Could it possibly be as awesome as those pony girls of the night?

Something smacked me in the face. It was the lead rider’s hat. Black and menacing, it was a hat made for a dom. I put it on. It fit, of course.

Oh, well. It wasn’t the secret to what happens to doms when they die, but it would do. It was a cool fucking hat.

Inspired by Riders in the Sky by Stan Jones

  6 Responses to “Fiction: Timothy and the Pony Girls of the Night”

  1. I didn’t recognize where we were. It smelled like Florida.

    One of many memorable lines!

  2. Wordslut- Thanks :) I debated that line so I’m glad I left it in.

  3. That’s fucked up….I loved it!

  4. Totally fucked up and totally awesome. Thanks, Shon!

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  6. Man, I remember Timothy from that paddling contest! He may be my absolute favourite character you write (besides maybe the Librarians)

    So yeah. I laughed, and smiled, and look forward to it.

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