Troika

by Cobalt Jade  7/97


It was crisp February day, the sky like blue sapphire. Countess Olga 
Lubamov decided to go for a ride.

She would call on her friend Sascha, she decided. He lived in town ten 
minutes' ride away from her dacha. But it was winter, and the roads 
were packed solid with snow. It was also after the fall of the Communist 
regime, and there were no snowplows, no petrol, and no spare parts for 
her 1983 Mercedes, which lay rusting in a garage at the edge of her 
garden.

Luckily, she had an alternative.

She threw on her sable coat, which suited her dark brown hair and 
luminous brown eyes. Her complexion was as clear and unspoiled as the 
fresh white snow outside. She came from a long line of Russian 
nobility--not that it counted for much these days--but generations of 
foreign education and good breeding had translated into the skill to 
cultivate good connections among those who ruled. Her father had been 
a regional minister in this part of the Urals and she had more or less 
inherited his land, and his power.

The only drawback was that it was so isolated. In winter she was 
practically cut off from the world, even with television and radio 
broadcasts. But the isolation also provided a way for certain regional 
customs to flourish without interference from the outside world. Once 
practiced in secret, the collapse of the old regime had made them 
reemerge in full flower.

She pulled on her leather boots and a pair of soft leather gloves lined 
with fleece, then gave orders to her man Nicholas to prepare the sleigh.

"You'll be wanting the horses, Countess?" he said with a jerk of his head 
towards the barn.

The Countess noted the drip of icicles and how her breath frosted in the 
cold, clear air. It was about ten degrees below freezing, but there was no 
wind and the sun was warm. "No," she said. "I'm going to use the girls."

Nicholas cocked his eye at her and gave her a lascivious smile. He knew 
her well. The shaggy-coated horses, descendants of Clydesdales and 
Percherons, watched her with reproach from the edge of their paddock.

The Countess strode across the yard, the snow crunching under her 
boots. The mountain peaks looked lavered in sugar, the forests that 
covered them a soft, fine fur. Taking a key from her pocket she 
unlocked the door of what had once been the dacha's guesthouse. The 
interior had been gutted and divided into two sections separated by a 
wide, hay-strewn aisle. Five paddocks lined either side. It looked much 
like a stable, except there were no horses. One by one her ponygirls 
leaned out of their stalls to stare at her over the open half-doors. 

What dear, sweet creatures they were. Tatiana. Statesque Lena. Hannah. 
Dunyasha and Nadia, the sisters from Volsk. Mariana. All were naked, 
their bodies round and sleek with the extra fat they needed for the 
winter. The Countess was not cruel, but she kept the temperature of the 
stable on the chilly side. She wanted to keep her ponygirls acclimated to 
the season outside. 

She brought a basket of treats with her and the ponygirls became 
excited when she removed the napkin. Their nostrils flared delicately at 
the scent of fresh bread and blackberry jam. They weren't permitted to 
talk, of course. The whip on the wall attested to that. The Countess knew 
they probably whispered among themselves when she or her grooms 
weren't there, but if they were caught they were punished. The groom's 
visits were never routine, forcing them to keep on their toes.

She went to Mariana's stall first. The large-breasted blonde leaned over 
the door to accept the jam-filled roll in her mouth. None of the 
ponygirls could use their arms, which were kept imprisoned behind 
them in a black leather tube drawn tight with laces. The Countess 
kneaded Mariana's breasts and the rosy nipples puckered under her 
hand. She would have to be milked soon. Mariana whimpered in 
pleasure and tossed her head, shaking her mane of thick butter-yellow 
hair.

The Countess visited Nadia next. She looked much like her sister 
Dunyasha: round, petite, with a pert snub nose and a full head of thick, 
black hair. The Countess had kept them in the same stall until it became 
clear an unnatural attachment had formed between them. One morning 
she had entered the stable to see Dunyasha leaning against the wall, 
moaning, squatting with her legs spread wide while Nadia's naughty 
little tongue lapped the wet nest of hair between her thighs. The 
Countess had had to punish them both. It was one of the her rules that 
the ponygirls always had to be at the height of unfulfilled excitement 
for either herself or her guests to enjoy. Sexual contact with each other 
was forbidden, unless the Countess wished it.

She had moved Dunyasha to the end of the aisle where Nadia wouldn't 
see her or talk to her, and they were only together when working. The 
two had pined for weeks while their backs and buttocks healed. The 
Countess had nearly given in and permitted them a moment together for 
solace. But no; it would only overstimulate the other ponygirls. They had 
to be kept apart for the good of the herd. A cruelty, but a necessary one. 

She still feel sorry for them, however, for she slipped Nadia a chocolate 
cordial as she left her stall. It was a special treat, as imported chocolates 
were to find in this province these days. 

She visited each stall in turn, pausing to pat the ponygirls or stroke 
their well-groomed manes. The last four stalls were empty; their 
occupants were in the creamery.

The Countess pushed through the double doors. The ponygirls were only 
allowed to use their hands and arms while working here; it kept them fit 
and toned their muscles. The two Kazahkstanis, Kara and Luva, were 
shackled to a churn they turned around and around in an endless circle, 
churning the cream in the tub below into sweet, fresh butter. 
Alexandria was busy at a smaller churn, pumping it up and down with 
her hands.  The churning motion must have excited her, or perhaps it 
was the sight of her workmate's breasts coming into view as they 
rounded the larger churn, then their buttocks as they left, for the wood 
of the bench between her thighs was quite wet. If she got too excited, 
the peasant women who supervised this place might smack her pussy 
for its undiscipline...but not too hard. 

Mikhaila knelt quietly on a another bench as a sausage-fingered 
peasant milked her breasts into a metal pan. The Countess knew a black 
market source for synthetic hormones and kept all her ponygirls 
continuously lactating. The milk made a fine cheese which she 
sometimes sold in town. She would bring Sascha a small square of it 
today, rolled in dried herbs and tied with a bow.

"How is the herd today?" she asked Maria, the supervisor.

"Oh, fine, Countess," the woman drawled, her ugly, kindly face 
separating into wrinkles. "Luva's got a bit of a cold, but outside of that 
they're all in fine temper, a little-stir crazy from the weather. Are you 
planning to take them out? It's a good day for it."

"Yes, I'm going to town. I've been cooped up too long in the house, I 
think."

"You'll enjoy it." Maria grinned at her and squirted some of Mikhaila's 
milk into a cup. "Try this."

This was one of life's luxuries, warm fresh milk on a winter morning. 
The Countess would have wanted to take it fresh from the breast, but 
that might lead to other things, and she had her trip into town to attend 
to.

She gave orders to the creamery supervisors for the day--the milking 
schedule, which ponygirls needed a workout or their toenails attended 
to--and went back into the stable. Nicholas was waiting for her. She 
looked around at all her charges, trying to decide which trio to take for 
the ride.

"Mariana," she said at last. "Harness her in the center, with Nadia and 
Dunyasha on either side." It would be a good combination. The sturdy 
blonde in the middle, with the cute, delicate sisters--who looked 
practically like twins--flanking her. The two could be together yet not 
be touching. The Countess was pleased.

Another groom quickly fetched the harnesses. They were custom made 
for each ponygirl of butter-soft black leather, an attractive contrast 
whether against a pale Estonian like Karina or the darker, central Asian 
complexions of Luva and Kara. A team of leatherworkers in Hamburg 
had made the harnesses to the Countess's specifications. They would be 
very surprised that they were being used on a farm instead of the 
steamy backrooms of some private club. If she wanted to the Countess 
could enhance her equipage with dildoes, gags, vibrators, and other 
toys, but today she wanted to keep them nearly nude.

Smart slaps on the rump shooed the chosen ones out of their stalls. The 
grooms laced the ponygirls' feet and legs into thigh-high black boots 
which had special soles for traction on ice and snow and a warm lining 
to keep their joints supple. Wide, tight belts went around each waist to 
which their bound arms and wrists were buckled, and another harness 
went around their shoulders. The ponygirl's breasts were snugged into 
half-cups of leather that held them erect and also served as a form of 
support. They would still jiggle as they trotted, but without the added 
strain from bouncing freely. 

A high leather collar completed the equipage, ensured the ponygirls 
wouldn't be able to turn their heads. A pair of blinkers shielded their 
eyes from what lay to either side and also offered protection from the 
glare of the snow. They would only be able to look straight ahead, 
without even a sidelong furtive glance at each other. Mariana waited 
stoically as she was strapped but the sisters were restless, stamping and 
tossing. They had become aroused from the grooms' handling, for both 
were breathing deeply. Fortunately, a glare from the Countess was 
enough to still them. 

Nicholas cracked his whip, driving the three out the door and into the 
snow. Though acclimated to the cold it still came as a shock, though the 
fast jog forced on them soon warmed them up. The sleigh waited in an 
open shed, the traces already fastened and lying before it. Silver bells 
decorated the leather. Nicholas helped the Countess into the sleigh and 
tucked the thick wool blankets around her. Her favorite whip waited in 
the slot beside her. 

Working quickly, they harnessed the ponygirls to the sleigh three 
abreast in the traditional Russian troika. "When will you be back, 
Countess?" Nicholas asked.

"Around sundown, I expect." That would be around four o'clock, but in 
the country, they still told time by the movement of the sun. The 
ponygirls stamped their feet in the snow, settling into their harnesses. 
The tight straps constricted them attractively, the pale flesh squeezing 
slightly over the edges. Plump mares they were, but underneath that 
layer of fat they were all sturdy muscle. 

The Countess snapped her whip. Three pairs of leather-sheathed legs 
churned into motion; naked flesh strained against the reins. The sleigh 
jerked forward, settled, jerked again as the runners found the slick ruts 
left by previous trips off the farm. Another jerk, and the troika began 
to glide...down the drive, past the bare fruit trees, and through the gate 
to the silent, waiting road.

The team was eager to be out today. Their buttocks switched saucily from 
side to side as they jogged. The Countess had a friend from Germany 
tattoo her family's crest--a double-headed eagle--on the apex of each 
ponygirl's left cheek to mark her ownership. She popped the whip 
again and again and was rewarded with an extra burst of speed each 
time. The ponygirls' hair swayed in the wind, lifted, and separated into 
tendrils. Frosty breath steamed from their nostrils. 

After a few minutes they settled into a moderate trot. The black trunks 
of trees flew by on either side, and stinging powder flew up from the 
runners of the sleigh and the ponygirls' boots. The sleigh squeaked and 
sluffed below the loud jingle of the harness bells. The Countess popped 
the whip idly, marking one buttock, then another. The ponygirl's skin 
began to flush rosy pink with exertion and beads of sweat appeared 
between their shoulderblades, but as long as they kept up the pace the 
cold wouldn't hurt them.

The ponygirls came from many places. Mariana was a Pole, a 
"foreigner's girl" who had come to Moscow with her provider. It hadn't 
worked out and she had wound up on the farm. Nadia and Dunyasha 
were peasants from a small village north of Volograd; Alexandria used to 
be a shipyard worker from Odessa. They had all come to the Urals in 
search of a better life, but they gotten more than they bargained for. 
The Countess had connections with the local officials and they were 
aware of her practices. She permitted them to use her ponygirls from 
time to time, and as long as the vodka flowed and backs were slapped, the 
ponygirls would stay ponygirls.

They reached the town. A few people were about, shoveling snow or 
walking to church. The Countess gave them a wave, which was warmly 
returned. No one thought ill of her for her eccentricities. Centuries ago 
there had once been annual competitions where the boys and girls of 
the town vied with each other for the honor to serve their Lord. It had 
been a privilege to march in harness at the head of the gilded carriage. 
After a year or so of bondage the Countess had found her ponygirls 
eager to serve in the same way...even in her bed.

She steered the sleigh through the icy square to Sascha's townhouse. His 
man Boris had heard her coming. Quickly he and his son ran out to 
unharness the team and lead them away by the reins to the stable. 
Sascha burst out of the house, Russia personified: tall, boisterous, a bear 
of a man with shaggy reddish-brown hair and a thick, untrimmed 
mustache. The Countess thought him attractive, though he didn't have 
her bloodline. "Why Olga! I knew you were coming, but I didn't expect 
you to get here so soon."

"You can thank the team for that," the Countess said, giving him a soft 
kiss on the cheek.

They stabled the ponygirls, then had a fine lunch of pelmeny in beef 
broth with dressed beets and black bread spread with the Countess's 
special cheese. After that came coffee and vodka. From personal 
experience the Countess knew a Pole could drink a Russian under the 
table any day, but try telling that to Sascha!

"You are an attractive woman, Olga," he said after his second drink. 
"What happened to Sergei?"

"Ah, he went back to Moscow," the Countess said with a twinge of 
sadness. "To open up a coffeehouse, of all things. One with computers 
and modems and hookups to the internet, he said."

"So the modern world intrudes on our provincial way of life," Sascha 
said, with a mocking grimace that told her he didn't take the 
pronouncement very seriously. "You could have a computer too. You 
have the money and the black market connections."

"But do we have the telephone lines and reliable service to carry the 
signals? I know nothing of computers, Sascha, and I don't want to. I'm 
too old-fashioned, I guess."

"And I admire you for it," Sascha said, his warm brown eyes sparkling. 
"I agree we don't need those things to enjoy life. Life in the country, the 
simple life, should be enough for us, the same way the peasantfolk out 
here have lived for centuries. I know you are a woman of particular 
tastes. I will never forget the first time I saw you with your team. You 
were blazingly alive, like a mistress of the hunt, a fierce wolfmaid, a 
goddess."

The Countess blushed. The afternoon light made dappled patterns on the 
faded rose wallpaper of the tiny parlor.

"In the West, your practices are diluted and made into fetishes, toys, no 
matter how cunningly they are celebrated among the experimental. 
Here they have a nobility, a purpose. It is the way things should be. You 
a beautiful woman Olga. In you I see the old Russia, the old blood. I could 
make you very happy."

What kind of talk of this from Sascha! Usually they 'd just met to have 
lunch over a stack of month-old New York Times. They both were 
bilingual. She told Sascha of the doings of the village and her farm, 
while he told her about his business trips to Moscow and the West, with 
particular attention paid to the uglier aspects of the post-communist 
world. Olga was glad such things would not mark this village.

She had been lonely since last summer. The ponygirls were becoming a 
tiring substitution for the strength and spice of hard male flesh. 

Sascha suddenly kissed her, crushing her breasts in his powerful 
hands, his demanding mouth a brute animal.

"Yes," she murmured. "We could be very happy, couldn't we?"

She told him to wait while she made some preparations in his bedroom, 
then told him to enter. Sascha was a man of tastes both bourgeois and 
country, most of them tactile: a bearskin covered the 4-poster bed his 
grandfather had carved, and flabby pillows of velveteen and satin, 
faded to a decadent luster, spoke eloquently of past pleasures in this 
place. Mariana knelt at the foot of the bed with her head down, knees 
spread wide so she couldn't stimulate her sex. For this afternoon, she 
would be a slave to their whims rather than the troika's.  

Sascha winked at her when he saw the obedient ponygirl. "Why, you 
naughty woman. I should have known."

The Countess gave a mock pout. "She is there to enhance, not tempt. 
Keep that in mind." 

They shed their clothes. Not a single glance came from the ponygirl. 
The Countess had chosen her because she knew how keyed up Mariana 
was; she hadn't been milked in days, and she hadn't been used sexually 
in weeks. In fact, the Countess had chosen her just in case dear Sascha 
got amorous. He had been hinting at an affair all winter.

They laid down on the thick bearskin that covered the bed. Sascha was 
just as hairy, his penis tumescent and at that stage where it was 
extended fully, but not yet beginning to rise. His body was hard and 
well-muscled from the physical chores he did to keep himself fit. The 
Countess tapped Mariana with her crop. 

On all fours, the ponygirl quickly moved over to take his penis in her 
mouth and began to suck on it vigorously. Sascha's surprise soon grew 
to pleasure. The Countess buried her face in his nicely furred chest, 
moving her tongue in little circles like a cat's. When Sascha was 
pointing magnificently--his cock reminding her of the rocket used to 
launch Mir cosmonauts--she tapped Mariana to indulge her with a 
similar act. 

The blonde lithely crouched between her spread legs and lapped at her 
pussy, sucking on her engorged clit. The Countess was already wet from 
watching Sascha's pleasure. Ohhh, that was it. The ponygirl lapped 
neither fast nor slow but in a steady rhythm like a machine, which was 
how the Countess had trained her. She didn't want her ponygirls to 
grow too excited as they gave their oral pleasure; they might forget 
whom they were supposed to please. She tapped Mariana's sleek bowed 
back, telling her to show some more energy. 

Mariana wriggled, her mouth making soft slurping sounds. The 
Countess's breathing roughened and her hips jerked from to side. 
Mariana moaned in her throat, hopelessly stimulated by her mistress's 
pleasure and her own swollen nipples rubbing against the fur. Her 
buttocks wagged up and down, revealing the top of the Lubamov crest 
with which she had been branded.

"Take me, Sascha," the Countess whispered between Mariana's slippery, 
forceful strokes. "Take me now, I can't stand it anymore!"

Sascha thrust aside the ponygirl and quickly climbed on top of her. He 
entered her in a long, hard thrust, then began moving his hips. 
Mariana quickly retreated to the corner of the bed. She kept her eyes 
demurely down, though her thighs trembled vainly with the strain of 
controlling her arousal.

But what Mariana did was of no further consequence. Sascha growled 
like a bear when he made love, his fingers digging into her buttocks, 
thrusting her upward again and again until her breath came in knotted 
gasps. In flashes she saw her troika's firm white buttocks as they trotted 
in the snow, their black-sheathed legs flashing below them; she felt the 
glittering sting of snow on her face, smelled again the warm pony 
aroma of musk and sweetness that dripped between their legs. 

She came in a series of shocks, and Sascha soon after. They spread their 
legs again and Mariana quickly cleaned them, mingling their juices on 
her tongue.

"For how much will you sell this one?" Sascha joked. He kept five ponies, 
but they were all male. Three were out that day hauling his aged father 
to another village.

"She is not for sale," the Countess said lazily. "Though perhaps I might 
make you a gift of her one day. Come here, dear. Let us drink. Sascha 
wants to sample the jug that cheese came from."

Among the ponygirls it was an honor and source of fierce competition 
to service the mistress, but Mariana had never let it go to her head. 
Shyly, she placed a hand under each breast, holding them out like a pair 
of taut wineskins. The Countess noticed the minute trembling that 
betrayed how excited she was. She could even see the blonde's clit 
peering out from beneath her silky thatch of yellow pubic hair.

Her nipples were now wide and distended, yet very alluring. The 
Countess wrapped her mouth around the left nipple and sucked. Fresh 
milk squirted over her tongue. It was delicious. She gave the nipple 
gentle bites as the milk kept flowing, wagging it back and forth with 
her tongue. Mariana sighed in relief. The ponygirl's eyes were closed, 
her mouth partly open; but it was more an expression of frustrated 
ecstasy rather than bliss.

They finished drinking. After a quick warm bath for Sascha and 
herself--Mariana attended them with her hands this time--they decided 
it was time to let her have her reward.

Mariana grew excited, having sensed what was coming. They took her 
back to the stable, where on order Sascha's grooms rolled out the 
studding block. This was a low leather-covered apparatus that looked 
like a vaulting horse, save there were no rungs. There was, however, a 
leather covered dildo that protruded from the surface, and Mariana was 
positioned on her belly so her well-moistened pussy eased over the 
glistening shaft. Immediately her hips began to pump up and down on 
the dildo, excited by the sex she had just seen and the long weeks of 
deprivation. Her flesh smacked the leather and she began to ululate 
"Ohhh...ah-ah..." in one of the few times the ponygirls were permitted to 
use their voices.

Before she got too excited Boris strapped her hands to the side of the 
block by her head, then doubled her legs behind her and bound her 
ankles so she now straddled the block like a lover. In a another minute 
she would come, but Sascha had other plans. He flipped a switch in the 
base of the block and the hidden vibrator came to life, ensuring 
Mariana would have dozens of orgasms, each more intense than the last. 
She would be very tractable for weeks after this. 

Her breasts struck the leather with meaty slaps, and her cries became 
louder and coarser. Nadia and Dunyasha stared over the door to their 
stall, hopelessly aroused by the sight. Sascha had only one extra stall so 
the Countess had been forced to stable them together, but she had left 
their collars and arm bindings on so they were tethered in opposite 
corners. Sascha's two remaining male ponies were staring even harder. 
The Countess couldn't see their cocks, but she knew they must be rock-
hard. Mariana was putting on quite a show. 

They left the ponygirl to her workout and went back to the house, 
where a fire had been stoked in the parlor. It was late afternoon and 
they would pass this quiet time by reading magazines from the West, 
talking, and drinking cognac. 

Suddenly one of the grooms came running from the stable. "Master, the 
ponies..."

They quickly ran to the stable. The two remaining male ponies, 
stimulated against all reason by Mariana's pleasure, had managed to get 
loose from their stalls. One had climbed on top of Mariana and was 
fucking her in the ass as she bounced and howled on the dildo, her face 
a grimace of mingled pain, shame, and pleasure. The other had gotten 
into the sisters' stall. Dunyasha was on her back, unable to get away 
because of her harness, her feet pointed above her as the male pony 
fucked her in brutal, rapid strokes. Nadia, still tethered in the corner, 
was moaning and rubbing herself raw on the edge of the bench.

The Countess was appalled. How could this happen? Sascha grabbed his 
bullwhip, cracking it at those minding pumping, hairy buttocks. The 
Countess winced. She couldn't help feeling a little sorry for the male 
ponies. Sascha didn't like men, so his pony's pent-up desires, quickened 
by Mariana and the sisters' presence, must have reached critical mass. 
Shame on Sascha for depriving them like that!

The disobedient ponies were herded back into their stalls with many 
more cracks and threats. They would be punished later. "I'm so sorry, 
Olga," Sascha said. "I should have better secured their pens."

"Don't worry," she reassured him. But she knew an incident like this 
severely disturbed their training because it was beyond her control. 
She would need to incorporate it later into the larger pattern of 
submission and punishment that kept her ponygirls obedient.

She had to leave anyway, so after effusive goodbyes from Sascha, and a 
promise to receive him at her farm later in the week, the team was 
reharnessed to the sleigh and she set out.

The sun was now a tropical glow behind the dark humps of the 
mountains. It was much colder. The Countess worked the ponygirls 
harder than she had on the trip in; they needed it to keep warm. They 
increased the pace, but not without tears and other complaints. Sascha 
had kept his stable too warm and that, along with the accidental sex 
they'd had, had spoiled them. The Countess was forced to stop and insert 
some gags in their prettily protesting mouths, along with three pairs of 
ice-cold nipple clamps. The dangling weights would be a good deterrent 
against further disobedience. She whipped them into motion again, and 
muffled sobs and gasps kept her company all the way back to the dacha. 

The dusk faded into violet, then a lightly starred blue. Her dacha came 
into sight, its windows glowing warmly. She began to feel repentant. It 
wasn't the girls' fault the male ponies had gotten free and raped them. 
That night, she decided, she would summon the Dunyasha and Nadia to 
her room. Her memories of Sascha would give the sex an extra spice. 
Later, she would permit them some pleasure between themselves. It was 
only fair.

It had been a good day, and it would be a good night. She snapped the 
whip as they pulled in the gate. Thank god the Communist regime was 
dead!


END

This work is copyrighted 1997 by Cobalt Jade (Cobaltjade@aol.com). This work may be be freely distributed over electronic media provided no fee is charged for its use.  Charging a fee for this story, or publishing without author credit or this notice violates my copyright.


