Stories

Inside the mind of a ponygirl pulling a cart through Shackleford.

 

I run, the chains at my wrists and ankles singing their familiar metal song against my bare skin. The morning sun already burns hot on my naked back. Sweat pools between my shoulder blades and runs down my spine, while more gathers between my breasts.

 

My breath comes in shallow gasps, pushing through the bit wedged between my teeth. Behind me, the wheels of the cart creak and groan under the weight of Master Rob and the beer barrel he's transporting. The iron collar around my neck feels heavier with each step, but I know better than to slow my pace. Cold beer must stay cold.

 

My feet slap against the hard, dusty road, each impact shooting pain up through my ankles where the iron shackles have rubbed my skin raw over years of service. The morning air should be fresh, but all I smell is my own body – the tang of sweat, the musk that rises from between my legs as I run. I know the scent marks my path through the streets like an invisible trail. It's how we slave women exist in Shackleford – naked, sweating, our bodies speaking for us when our mouths are stopped with bits and bridles.

 

The iron nose-ring tugs painfully as Master Rob guides me with sharp jerks of the lead. Left. Right. Faster. Each command given without words, just the cruel language of metal against flesh. I've been pulling his cart since sunrise, but the barrel of beer is only now being delivered to the tavern. It must arrive cold, he'd said, pressing his whip against my buttocks before we set out. Not warm. Not even cool. Cold.

 

"Pick up the pace, Smelly-Sweaty!" - Master Rob growls from behind me, his voice carrying over the rattle of wheels. - "Sun's getting higher."

 

My thigh muscles burn as I force my legs to move faster. The heavy iron shackles on my ankles shift with each stride, their edges grinding against my Achilles tendons. I've learned to run in a particular way to minimize the pain – a rolling motion, heel to toe, trying to keep the metal from digging too deeply into the same spots. But it's impossible to avoid the friction entirely. By evening, I know I'll have fresh blood mixed with the sweat.

 

My wrists fare no better. The manacles there have become slick with my perspiration, sliding up and down my forearms as I pump them for speed. The skin beneath is rubbed smooth from years of wear, shiny with scar tissue that nevertheless manages to find new ways to hurt with each day's labor. The chains connecting them clank rhythmically, adding their voice to the city's morning chorus – hammers on anvils, merchants calling their wares, the moans and cries of other slaves about their tasks.

 

I feel Master Rob's eyes on my back, studying the movement of my muscles, the bounce of my buttocks as I run. He's never touched me the way some masters touch their slaves. He sees me only as a beast of burden, a living engine to pull his goods through town. Sometimes I think that's better. Other times, I wonder what it would be like to be wanted, truly wanted, by someone who owns me.

 

The sweat pours from my body now, rivulets running down my spine, between the cheeks of my bottom, down my inner thighs. My nipples are hard from the friction of the air and the exertion, jostling painfully with each stride. The smell of my body grows stronger, a primal female scent that I know drifts behind me like a cloud. Some of the men we pass turn to look, their eyes following the naked slave woman pulling the cart, nostrils flaring slightly as they catch my scent.

 

"Filthy mare," one of them mutters as we pass, but there's a hunger in his eyes that belies his disgust.

 

I keep my gaze down. Looking at free people is forbidden unless ordered. My world narrowing to the next step, the next breath, the next tug on my nose-ring telling me which way to turn.

 

The cart behind me suddenly feels heavier. Master Rob has shifted his position, leaning back to stay in the thin slice of shade provided by the beer barrel. The wooden wheels grind against a loose stone, and I feel the jolt through the harness strapped across my chest. The iron collar digs into my neck, the chain running down from it to the heavy belt of iron around my waist. Every step pulls against the metal, the weight of the cart dragging through my body. The chain keeps me leaning forward, forcing my legs to do the work. Nothing about pulling a grown man and a full barrel is ever comfortable.

 

"The sun's climbing higher," Master Rob calls out. "That beer warms, and you'll feel the whip tonight."

 

My heart races faster at his words. Not from fear—though I do fear the whip—but from the desperate knowledge that I must succeed. I must deliver the beer cold. It's not about avoiding punishment; it's about fulfilling my purpose. This is what I was born for, what my mother before me was born for. To serve, to pull, to run until my lungs burn and my legs give out.

 

The bit in my mouth has gone dry, the metal warming against my tongue. Saliva dribbles from the corners of my lips, joining the sweat on my chin and neck. I can't wipe it away—my hands are bound to the traces of the cart. I can't speak to ask for water—the bit ensures that. I can only run, my body increasingly desperate for moisture as it leaks from every pore.

 

We pass a water trough for horses and slave-women like me. I glance at it longingly, but Master Rob doesn't pause. Cold beer is more important than a thirsty slave. I'll drink when the work is done, if he remembers. If not, I'll wait until we return to his property, where I'll be hosed down with the other slaves before being locked in my cage for the night.

 

My thoughts drift as my body works automatically. I wonder if my mother felt this same burning in her legs, this same thirst in her throat, this same weight of the collar around her neck. Amber-31, they called her. I never knew her as "mother"—only as the older slave woman I was chained to as a girl, learning to pull alongside her until I was strong enough to work alone. Did she dream of a kinder master? Did she ever wish for more than chains and bits and heavy carts to pull?

 

A sudden jerk on my mouth-bit brings me back to the present, pain shooting through my face as Master Rob guides me around a corner. The tavern is in sight now, its weathered sign swinging gently in the hot breeze. Almost there. My legs move faster despite the agony in my muscles, driven by the promise of rest, however brief.

 

"Good girl," Master Rob murmurs, the rare praise sending an unexpected wave of pleasure through me. "Almost there."

 

The words shouldn't affect me, but they do. I feel a flush that has nothing to do with exertion spread across my chest and neck. This is part of our conditioning—to crave approval, to thrive on the smallest scraps of kindness from those who own us. I know this intellectually, but the knowledge doesn't stop the warm feeling that blooms inside me at his words.

 

My sweat has soaked the shackle now, making it stick to my skin in some places and slide painfully in others. The chain between my breasts have chafed the sensitive skin there, leaving red marks that will sting for hours. The smell of my body is overwhelming even to me—raw, animal, female. In the heat, it grows stronger, announcing my passage to everyone within range.

 

I hear whispers as we pass a group of free women:

"Disgusting."

"The smell..."

"Why don't they at least wash them?"

 

Their words shouldn't hurt, but they do. I'm doing what I was born to do, what I was trained to do. The sweat, the smell, the nakedness-none of it is my choice. Yet I feel shame creep into my chest, mingling with the pride I'd felt at Master Rob's approval.

 

We reach the tavern, and I slow to a stop before the cellar doors, my chest heaving with exertion. My legs tremble beneath me, threatening to give out, but I lock my knees. Collapsing now would mean punishment. The beer must be delivered properly.

 

Master Rob climbs down from the cart, his boots heavy on the hard road. He walks around to examine me, his eyes clinical as they sweep over my sweat-drenched body.

 

"You're getting faster," he says, reaching out to touch my collar, checking that it hasn't rubbed my neck too raw. "Good girl."

Again that flush of pleasure at his words. I hate myself for it, but I can't help it. In a world where I am nothing but property, his approval means everything.

The tavern keeper emerges from the cellar doors, wiping his hands on a dirty cloth. "Got my beer, Rob?"

"Cold as a witch's tit," Master Rob replies, patting the barrel. "My mare here ran like the devil was chasing her."

The tavern keeper's eyes roam over my body, lingering on my breasts, my thighs, the dark triangle between my legs. "Strong one, ain't she? Good breeder?"

"Haven't tried her for that," Master Rob says dismissively. "She's a runner, not a breeder. Now, help me get this barrel down to your cellar."

 

They unhitch me from the cart, but leave me standing in my restraints—the collar, the wrist and ankle shackles, the bit in my mouth. Master Rob secures my lead to a post meant for horses and slave-women like me. I stand there, naked, sweating, gasping for breath, as they roll the barrel from the cart and maneuver it through the cellar doors.

 

Free people pass by on the street, some averting their eyes, others staring openly. A few young boys point and giggle. A gentleman in a fine suit pauses, his gaze traveling slowly over my body, lingering on the sweat that makes my skin glisten in the morning sun. He seems particularly interested in the dark patches of hair under my arms, damp with perspiration, and the way my chest rises and falls with each labored breath.

 

"She yours?" he asks when Master Rob returns from the cellar.

"She is," Master Rob confirms, accepting a purse of coins from the tavern keeper.

"How much?" the gentleman asks, his eyes never leaving my body.

 

A strange feeling twists in my stomach. Fear? Hope? I can never tell anymore. Being sold means uncertainty—a new master could be kinder than Rob, or infinitely worse. The possibility dangles before me like a drop of water before a woman dying of thirst. Change. Something different. Perhaps someone who looks at me and sees more than just a beast of burden.

 

"She's not for sale," Master Rob says, to my surprise. "Best cart-puller I've got. Reliable. Strong legs."

The gentleman looks disappointed but nods in understanding. "If you change your mind..."

"You'll be the first to know," Master Rob assures him, though I can tell from his tone that he has no intention of selling me.

 

I should feel relieved. Master Rob is predictable. I know his routines, his expectations, the exact pressure of the whip when he's truly angry versus when he's merely impatient. A new master would mean learning everything again, risking mistakes, enduring new punishments.

 

Yet as we leave the tavern, me pulling the now-empty cart with Master Rob once again seated behind me, I feel a hollow ache in my chest. Not disappointment, exactly, but something adjacent to it. A recognition that nothing will change. Tomorrow I will pull another cart. The day after, another. My sweat will soak into the same leather harness. The same iron will chafe my wrists and ankles. The same bit will silence my voice.

 

"Faster," Master Rob commands, tugging at my lead. "We've deliveries to make on the north side before noon."

 

I quicken my pace, ignoring the screaming pain in my legs, the raw spots where the metal has rubbed my skin away. The sun climbs higher, promising a day of brutal heat. More sweat. More thirst. More pain.

 

But I run. I run because that is what I was made to do. I run because there is nothing else for me in this world. I run because Master Rob has commanded it, and I am Amber-A32, cart-pulling slave, property of Rob the Master.

 

And as I run, I wonder, as I often do in the quiet corners of my mind, if somewhere in this city there might be a master who would look at me—sweaty, naked, chained—and see something more than just a beast to be worked until I break.

 

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