The Game of Tag - Part 2

“I thought we would do this differently today, if you don’t mind” Lindsay tells me when we meet in the morning. I follow her to what looks like a soccer field without any goals, surrounded by bleachers. Two athletic boys are right in the middle of it, on all-fours and wearing full tack. I immediately realize that they are waiting for us.

“How about a comfortable tour of the campus, Miss Jones?” I barely hear Lindsay’s words, as I am breathless with arousal and entirely focused on the handsome human ponies in front of me.

Without a word, I choose the slightly smaller one and I mount him. The leather saddle is as thin as the ones we used back in my day, and it allows me to feel the pony’s back sagging under my weight. It doesn’t help him that I let my butt plop down on his back, without any effort to slow it down.

“Actually that one is my personal… Never mind. It’s okay.” Lindsay says with a smile, before swinging her right leg over the other human pony and mounting it, much more gracefully than I did. So it’s clear that I am riding Lindsay’s personal pony, who evidently expected her much lighter weight and was surprised by mine. That turns me on even further. I can’t wait to hear him pant and suffer under me.

I haven’t felt the muscles of a human pony working under me in years, and I am in a state of constant arousal during the next hour, struggling to pay attention as Lindsay shows me around like a perfect tour guide. We mostly ride slowly, with frequent stops to admire statues and buildings, then we head into a park and I can feel my mount struggling a bit on an uphill trail. Our human ponies are blindfolded, so mine doesn’t realize that Lindsay’s pony has gained about half a length on him. I don’t have a riding crop, but I use the end of my bridles to hit my mount between his shoulder blades. He reacts more promptly than I expected, so I pass Lindsay on a trot and I catch a glimpse of her worried expression: she is probably fond of her personal pony, the one whose back I am bouncing on with my full weight.

She is clearly still in awe of me though, and I take advantage of it because I am having too much fun. “How about a quick race? Who reaches the hilltop first?” I propose.

Her competitive spirit must have the best of her, because she kicks her pony’s thighs and goes: “Yah! Yah!” Unlike her, I am not wearing boots with English spurs. So I rely mostly on my signature move, hitting my mount’s neck and shoulders with the bridles while wishing I has a small whip instead.

Soon my human pony is moaning in pain every time I bounce on his back, which dutifully bends when receiving my weight in order to ensure my comfort. I am approaching an orgasm, so I bend a little forward to increase the stimulation between my thighs. This shifts my weight towards the boy’s arms, further increasing his struggle, so Lindsay decisively gains a lead just as I am furiously cumming, indifferent to the result of our improvised race and entirely focused on my own pleasure.

I can still feel my face blushing as I reach the top and pull the reins, so I can stop right next to my young host. Our mounts are desperately panting for air, but we stay mounted with our feet in the stirrups and we enjoy the view.

And what a view it is: for the first time on our tour, I see more women astride human ponies. Dozens of them, apparently riding in random circles on a large field right outside the stadium where we started our tour. “They are warming up for the upcoming game. We should go, it’s starting in just a few minutes.”

As we reach the bleachers, I realize there are no seats on them. Every spectator is a woman, sitting in reverse position on an all-fours male’s back, with her boots or shoes on top of his calves. Lindsay and I reach our spots astride our ponies, and I am surprised to see two human seats waiting for us. “Aren’t we going to use our ponies as chairs?” I ask.

“Oh, we have an abundance of servants. So we get them trained for specific roles. Besides, I feel like our ponies can use a little rest…” Lindsay points out.

“I understand. But I would like to do things the old way, if you don’t mind. I used to have one ponyslave, and he was mine to use in every way. And my biggest pleasure was to keep my full weight on him until he collapsed, expecting his endurance to be a little higher every day.” As I say all of that, I can hear my voice getting deeper with arousal. I hope Lindsay won’t notice.

The girl is probably a little worried about the wellbeing of her personal slave, who’s been struggling under me for the best part of the morning. So she hesitates to reply, while I simply direct the boy with my bridles until his head is facing the top of the bleachers. Then I take my feet off the stirrups to stand up, I make a 180 turn and I plop heavily on his back again. This clearly takes him by surprise: he probably thought the ride was finally over. He moans in pain and I can hear the air come out of his lungs, but I pretend indifference and place my heels on top of his bare calves.

“Well, I suppose we could try and do things the old-fashioned way, in your honor” Lindsay finally says, swallowing a rebuttal, and then immediately submitting her mount to the same treatment.

Soon the game starts, and I am amazed by the level our little tradition has reached. The girls ride their human ponies brutally, whipping them constantly and forcing them to sudden and sharp turns, bu pulling the bridles so hard that their heads turn to the side and their mouths are stretched open by the rubber-coated bits. The competitor who is “It” has to push her mount particularly hard, until she manages to tag an opponent by hitting her pony’s butt with her own riding crop. When that happens there is a short break, then the game resumes. There are two periods of 45 minutes, with a 15 minute break in between, during which the riders get fresh mounts.

I keep my full weight on my mount for the entire time.

“We kind of care about our personal servants” Lindsay explains, while glimpsing at hers shaking under my weight. “So we only use shared slaves as mounts for the game. They are specifically trained as sprinters, with constant starts and stops, though of course they also need a certain degree of endurance to survive an entire period.

I am delighted to observe how exhausted the human ponies are towards the end of each period, while their riders use their spurs and whips mercilessly to make them continue.

I am even more delighted to see that my mount doesn’t collapse under me, even though he must be in complete agony by now.

I suddenly decide that I will not give this up again.

Later on that same day, I am talking to the Dean in her office. A heavy woman in her sixties, she is sitting on a human chair made by two strong ponies, blindfolded and tied together on all fours, with a leather cushion on their backs. She is a fan of my work and I can see her eyes shine, as soon as I suggest the possibility of me being willing to accept a teaching position if the conditions were right. Of course this would be a huge popularity boost for the school.

The Dean quickly starts talking about possible roles, salary, bonuses. She says will provide a residence for me. I can organize conferences and invite other published authors… She is trying her best to build a package that will make me join the school. I listen for a while, but I have other concerns in mind…

“How many personal slaves can I have? Can I keep them overnight? And do you have Games of Tags for the teaching body? Oh, no? Well, we are going to have to change that…”

And that’s the beginning of a new chapter in my life.