Summary: Justina Jay visits here rich friend Mirelle at her enormous ranch where she is holding a race meeting. The object of one of the races is to win, not because of the prizes, but because all the losers are immediately and summarily gelded.
Returning from my trip to Una’s island, off Turkey, I only had time to attend a couple of board meetings with my directors – naturally all women – when I was phoned and reminded by a chum in Kentucky that I had agreed to fly out for her big summer race meeting. It had slipped my mind, but I knew my pal Mirelle, a former Miss USA finalist, would be upset I didn’t attend. Trying to get my current house boy to pack in a hurry was like trying to get blood out of a stone. Eventually, in his haste, he managed to tear a chiffon dress. I was furious. Not tolerating idiot house boys gladly, when I left for the States he had been soundly flogged, and was shipped off to spend the rest of his miserable life on a sugar plantation which I own.
I actually arrived at Mirelle’s huge ranch a day early, in time for some relaxation. Mirelle is a very tall, leggy lady, who has a great love of the American dream, the great out-doors, unashamed luxury, a penchant for the bizarre, and an unrivalled loathing for males. It is common knowledge that her ex-husband treated her badly, and that now she is a staunch lesbian. However, apart from bruises, she did inherit something close to half a billion dollars when he died in a mysterious yachting accident. Rumors were flying at the time, but those of us who know her are quite aware of what happened to him.
Having freshened up, I went downstairs and was greeted by the lady herself. She looked absolutely magnificent, dressed like a cowgirl, with a teeny, fringed cowhide skirt and a fringed jacket, a ten gallon hat and a pair of brown pointed boots, which had a fierce looking set of rowel-spurs affixed. Curled around her fancy buckled belt was a sturdy round-up whip. She kissed me firmly on the lips; I was tingling and excited, so made no attempt at resisting when she poked her tongue into my mouth. We played for a while, our tongues rolling around together. In high spirits, she led me back upstairs and insisted I dress in an identical outfit to her own. She stood and watched, drawling exuberantly about her cattle and crop yields, as a male, in tight leather body suit, undressed and dressed me. What I found rather odd was the slave’s suit did not allow the bending of elbows or knees, or the twisting of the head. With arms permanently outstretched to his front, all movement was facilitated via the waist. Just for a bit of fun, before leaving, I ordered him to get my clothes unpacked from my trunks , then polish every single pair of shoes and boots which I had brought with me – about sixty pairs. Mirelle laughed and said. “Keep ’em busy, keep ’em busy.”
As we strode out of the ranch-house into the glorious sunshine, a couple of ranch-girls were holding a pair of handsome mustangs for us. I bounced up into the saddle and sat down on the broad American saddle, which felt like an armchair after a British saddle. Yanking my right rein, the horse turned. Mirelle and I rode side-by-side, chatting about tomorrow’s race meeting. Without a word of warning, she dug the spurs into the flanks of her mount, and galloped away. Naturally, I spurred up my horse and gave it a few hefty lashes on either flank with the reins. We rode out at the gallop for about a mile, until we came across a whole gang of cowgirls rounding up a herd of beef cattle. We entered what I can only describe as a dust bowl. The cowgirls were yelling and whooping at the animals, and the sound of crack after crack of their whips filled the air as they drove the obstinate beasts along.
Through the dust, I noticed that a number of naked, two-legged males were running about, trying to avoid the cowgirls’ whips and the hooves of the heavy beasts. I saw one fall. Mirelle rode up and slashed at him with her whip until he scrambled to his feet. She whipped him into line, until he suddenly stumbled. The earth shook under the weight of the herd and he disappeared from view, shrieking as they ran across him. I could hear Mirelle laughing above the racket. Taking up my whip, I joined in the drive. A male ran in front of my horse and tried to dart away to one side. I jerked my mount’s head round sharply and pursued him, making sure that I caught him a few cracks of my whip before he fell down in front of me. It was an exhilarating feeling as I trampled him into the dirt, followed by three more cowgirls who galloped across the flailing body.
We drove beasts on and on, running as fast as they could towards the corrals. There were two corrals, and Mirelle rode up beside me and told me that any of the animals could be driven into either, but that that they should end up with roughly equal amounts. Sitting around the rails of each enclosure were a number of cowgirls. As soon as the gates were shut, they waited for the cattle to settle, then jumped down into the rings. I sat back on my mustang, next to Mirelle, who was wearing a permanent grin. Asking my host what was going to happen, she would only say, “I’m making me a livin’.” About a dozen cowgirls in the first corral jumped onto a bull and pulled him over, turning him onto his back. Within a second, a Mexican looking girl with long jet black hair, knelt between the beast’s back legs and unceremoniously castrated it.
A girl pointed at a two-legged male, and all the girls chased him around the corral, caught him, dumped him onto his back and within a second the dark haired girl had sliced off his balls. Very soon, the cowgirls had finished the task of castrating both the four-legged and two-legged cattle in the first corral.
“Now we brand ’em”, Mirelle informed me, looking on with interest, chewing a piece of gum. Mirelle dismounted and strolled over to where a brazier had already been set up. As one of the males was pinned down with a few girls sitting on his back, his rump help up firmly in readiness, Mirelle pulled the branding iron from the glowing heat. She spat on it, and it hissed like a snake. Slowly she wafted it about the male’s face and head. He struggled and wriggled in the dirt, and Mirelle smiled broadly. Then she licked her lips and moved it closer and closer to the flesh. The beast struggled frantically. Finally Mirelle pushed it firmly onto the left buttock. There was a scream and hiss as the iron imprinted the mark of the owner. Mirelle held the iron in position and counted slowly to ten, then handed it to the dark haired girl. Mirelle remounted her horse, and we watched together as the girls went through and branded every animal in the pound. They were then driven, ball-less and branded, into a huge cattle shed.
Now attention was turned to the remaining corral of beasts. With no idea where we were going, I followed Mirelle and the others as they began to herd the cattle along a corridor towards a huge corrugated building. We then tied up our horses and entered the building through a side door. Six girls yanked along a huge beast by a chain around its neck, while others cracked it’s rump with their whips. They led it into a tight metal pen, and I could see what was about to happen. Its head was pinned down firmly between two clamps, then a large busty red head pulled down a bolt-gun. There was a bang. A bit of a struggle ensued as the cowgirls pursued a two-legged male and frog-marched him, yelling, towards the metal pen.
Later, as we walked back towards the ranch-house, Mirelle said, “Darn it, Justina, it’s all cattle. The castrated ones get a stay, anyhow. Fatten ’em up for a bit longer.” I felt no guilt that evening as I sat around the table chatting with the other guests, and tucked ravenously into a thick, juicy steak.
The next morning, I was bathed and dressed by my attendant, and went down for breakfast by the pool. The whole ranch was buzzing about the day’s racing, and Mirelle was already greeting guests. Both visitors and staff talked excitedly about the ponies which they fancied would win. As I sipped my buck’s fizz, I was presented with a program of the afternoon’s events, which included a form guide for each of the eight races. The highlight, as it had been for the last four years, would be the Mirelle Kentucky Derby. There were nine prime colts contesting this year, all of whom had been entered by their various owners and trained by their specially designated trainers. Although a winning pony can be sold, that is of no importance, and the real spirit of the competition is to show off the skill of the owner, trainer and jockey.
At one o’clock the track side marquees were packed with joyous ladies, all present to enjoy a good afternoon’s racing. Following an announcement on the public address system and a fanfare of trumpets, played by young ladies in sort of mock beefeaters uniforms, the gates at the far end of the course were opened and our procession of coaches set off on their way towards the start line. Mirelle and her two nieces occupied the front carriage, and myself and the Countess Olga of Austria occupied the second carriage. Behind us came three other carriages. Each vehicle was luxurious and decorated with splendid ornate gilt work, and pulled by four huge, sturdy pony slaves.
They wore fancy harnesses and bridles, with bells around their ankles, and horse hair plumes which sprouted from their headgear. I sat back and waved as we passed the cheering crowd to travel the mile or so along the straight course. The animals were required to execute an exaggerated high trot, with legs rising up and down in unison, feet turned neatly inwards and landing on tiptoes. Our driver and foot woman sat before us, resplendent in their coats and top hats. The poor darlings must have been baking, and I was only too grateful that I had chosen to wear an extremely lightweight dress which allowed a cooling breeze to flow across my body. One of our ponies fidgeted and tried to accelerate, this disobedience was immediately punished with a firm tug on his reins and a couple of sharp reminders with the driving whip.
Arriving in what Mirelle had named the royal enclosure, a tape was cut by Countess Olga and the race meeting was pronounced open. I strolled down to the paddock with Mirelle’s young nieces, Bobbie and Beccy. Both of them were high spirited girls, but they maintained that very serious air that seems to be so much expected of young American ladies. Their dresses were finely cut to conservative length, just below the knee. Bobbie’s showed off a mere glimpse of cleavage, each wore a small hat with a ribbon. My own dress was much shorter and lighter, and my hat was a huge gay affair. We arrived at the ring to find the stable lasses parading their charges. All of the day’s races were in harness and across the flat. At other times of the year, minor meetings take place where ponies are saddled and ridden across obstacles, and also harnessed and driven across specially prepared, rough and bumpy courses. These other races are classified as hunts and chases.
There was an appreciative clap as the jockeys arrived in the paddock, dressed in colorful silks and thin white jodhpurs. The first race was for novice jockeys and novice ponies. Neither drivers nor ponies must ever have competed in more than ten races, and no pony must have ever won a race in its career. Due to these criteria, Beccy said she would bet on Amy, an old chum, whom she was confident had the strength and determination to drive any old nag to victory. Bobby decided that she would back the favorite, and I decided to go by form and weight. Amy, I’m sure, was a very capable driver, but she looked rather heavy at over ten stone to win on a pony that had only ever carried a seven and a half stone jockey in the past. I noticed that of the fourteen runners, one likely lad looked very fit and alert. His ears pricked up as his jockey, a cool looking girl with a long ponytail, mounted her buggy. She held the reins tightly as the pony’s stable lass tightened the harness and led him towards the entrance of the track. We put on our bets and went to watch the runners cantering down to the start. Amy’s mount looked very hot and was sweating up, and it seemed as if pulling Amy’s weight down to the start line was enough for him. Sure enough, she crossed the finish line, frantically whipping her exhausted pony home, in last place. Beccy was furious and went along to help her chum take the skin off the pony’s hide. Most losing ponies received a well-deserved thrashing. My selection had passed the post second, which I felt was fair, but really I’m only interested in winners. Bobbie’s choice had finished well down in the middle of the field and was whipped by its jockey all the way back to the stables.
The next race was for geldings only, and it was won by a smart looking lad which I managed to select and have a bet on. Beccy and Bobbie were most put out. A colts race followed. None of us picked a winner, which Bobbie assured me was due to their unsound temperament. And next came a race which has to be one of my all-time favorites; the beauty therapists Gelding Challenge Handicap. The race was devised by a consortium of beauty therapists, and is of great novelty value. It is a challenge to owners of high class colts who have the nerve to put their ponies on the block. All ponies must have won no fewer than five good class, listed races. Only three of the fifteen brave owners would have a pony which would ever compete in high class races again. Any pony failing to finish in the first three would be returned to the harnessing enclosure and gelded, hence making him eligible only for chases, disqualifying him totally from the prestigious flat races. The lady with the microphone explained all this to the spectators.
A huge crowd of ladies collected around the parade ring as the colts, harnessed and ready to run, were led in by the stable girls. When all the turnouts were in the ring, they were halted and their groin covers removed. Some of the younger spectators whistled. Beccy and Bobbie laughed and clapped, “I’ve got the winner of this’n”, boasted Beccy. “Look out for the one with the biggest balls!” She then relayed a theory that because each pony was effectively running to save his plums, the one with the biggest ones would run the fastest because he had the most to lose. Bobbie laughed hysterically and said that Beccy put forward this theory every year, but had yet to choose a pony which had retained his right to keep his balls.
The ponies were paraded round and round until eventually the jockeys filed into the ring. A lass pulled her charge to a halt right in front of us and held him firmly as a petite jockey approached. She came up to the lass and asked what chance she thought she had. “Pretty good”, replied the lass. “Except the handicapper has given us a bit to do.” I had earlier thought the same as I looked at the penalty weight which the colt had been given. Beccy gave me a nudge and gestured at the leather bands which were attached just under the pony’s knees. The pockets of the bands were bulging with carefully calculated lead weights. Bobbie couldn’t see the problem, saying that the handicapper knew her job, and the animal had obviously earned the extra weight. Before getting into the little buggy, the blonde jockey whispered into the ear of her mount, and gently rubbed his great, fat balls. This seemed to unnerve the animal, and we watched with some dismay as his member started to stiffen and rise. Bobbie and Beccy watched with disgust and sipped champagne. The jockey continued to rub him, and I heard her say, “if you don’t win, boy, then we’re going to have to cut these off.” He was a highly strung colt and started to toss his head and crunch on the bit.
Suddenly, the colt flung his head to one side and caught the blonde jockey an almighty bash in the face. In a second he had yanked the reins from the stable lass’s fingers and proceeded to dart off across the ring. As the jockey cried “OW!” and held her face, I instinctively nipped under the barrier fence and ran after the wayward animal, followed by the stable lass and a number of other spectators. We encircled the animal. He looked scared and jumpy. As I slowly approached him, I gently called out, “Good boy, Good boy. We’re not going to hurt you.” I walked up and he trustfully let me take his reins. Then, as another lady took the reins from me, I walked cautiously around, and with the minimum of movement, slipped up into the seat of the buggy. Very carefully, the reins were passed back over the pony’s head and handed to me. The pony tried eagerly to twist his head round towards me, but his harness made it impossible. He champed at the bit, and when I was sure that he was calm, I pulled on the reins and reversed the turnout away from the rails and into the center of the enclosure. A cheer went up from the ladies in the crowd, and I could see champagne classes raised everywhere. I watched with sympathy as the young jockey was led away in tears to the medical tent. As the pony’s lass, Sherry, and its owner, Miss Fox, came over to thank me, I was just about to dismount when Miss Fox asked me if I would substitute for the injured driver. Pointing out that although I was a proficient pony handler but not a licensed jockey, the owner looked across at Mirelle. Mirelle smiled and nodded. Having accepted the challenge, a great cheer went up when it was announced over the loudspeakers that I would drive pony number nine, Just Dandy. Miss Fox was keen to have her animal raced in this event, and as the other competitors had started to leave the paddock, it was obvious that I wouldn’t have time to change or have the weights adjusted. Miss Fox said that as I was obviously much taller than her original jockey, there was no problem about the weighing in above the handicapper’s stipulated weight. It didn’t matter that the pony would have an extra stone or two to pull. It seemed pointless to suggest that we remove the lead weights from around his knees, and Sherry had already mentioned that it was time to get him down to the start.
Beccy and Bobbie jumped up and down excitedly as I walked the pony past them towards the exit and out onto the course. “Good luck”, said Sherry as she unclipped the lead rein. Although unprepared to participate in a public race this afternoon, I sat back and decided win or lose I would enjoy myself. I clicked my tongue and kept a firm hold of the reins, making sure that the lad wouldn’t try to run away with me. He cantered on smoothly, but tried to toss his head about. I took a firmer grip on the reins to ensure that the bit would be cutting into the corners of his mouth, to alleviate the problem. The last thing I wanted was a difficult race on my hands. Following the string of turnouts, I eventually arrived at the start. Just Dandy was sweating up and seemed to be breathing rather heavily. Was I mad? Did I stand any chance whatsoever of driving the colt to victory?
Walking slowly round, I kept my mount’s limbs moving as we waited to be lined up by the starter. One by one, the jockeys were called to pull their ponies into the line-up. Number nine was called, and I steered my pony round next to the others, checking him to make sure that he didn’t overstep the mark and risk disqualification. The girl next to me smiled and wished me good luck. As I slid the swishy driving whip from its holder, my pony’s ears pricked up and he started to fidget. Even as a novice, I knew that one must never touch a pony with the whip until racing has started, as it could send it off prematurely. Using the reins, and gently shushing him, I tried to calm him down. The anticipation was electric as the starter took up her position with her flag. All the ponies were shuffling nervously, their finely honed muscles twitching, and their bodies gleaming with sweat.
The Flag dropped and there was an instant flurry of sharply cracking whips all around me. Copying the style of the other jockeys, I flicked my wrist back and forward, stinging the pony’s rump with a very fast flurry of little cuts. Already I must have been two lengths behind. There was a mile to run. Having accelerated their mounts to the desired pace, the others settled down, holding off on their whips for the moment. With half a dozen cuts, we passed the four back markers. We were on the outside as we came towards the left hand and there was no chance of me pulling in. Instead, I kept my mount steady and we raced alongside the others. Suddenly, the pony’s foot slipped. He stumbled and I found us veering sharply inwards. The jockey next to me yanked back on her reins, but there was nowhere for her to go in order to avoid me. Hooves were thundering all around me. Natural instinct told me to thrash his left flank. As I did, he lurched away to the right and picked up his footing. I tried to steady the buggy by pulling him back, but I found myself swerving uncontrollably to and fro. Eventually, as I was pulled this way and that, I straightened him up, eased off the reins and whipped him up again.
The other colts had now rounded the bend and were several lengths ahead. Tactics were far from my mind. I was incensed by his mistake and being left, once again in last place. We had now negotiated the only bend of the race and the straight stretched out before me. Using all my strength, I slashed the whip down across his rump, for a split second he shook his head and hesitated, until I caught him again with another stinging slap, when he jolted forwards, bending into the traces. Although we accelerated considerably, I was in no mood to let him down. I drew back my arm and let go with another enormous crack of the whip, which cut open his hide. His muscles were straining and the sweat was pouring down him. A lump of foam from his mouth went flying past me. As I kept at him with the whip, I gained on my rivals. We passed a sturdy, black pony on the left, then worked up through the field. All I could see then, in the distance, was the winning post as we flew by the five hundred yard marker. With all my effort I kept the whip cracking across his back and flanks.
There were just three girls ahead of me, and I was driven by an exhilarating urge to win. The four hundred yard marker post went by as I moved up alongside the third. Glancing across, I noticed the jockey was making virtually no effort to keep up with me, and I accelerated past her. My pony started to slow down. His legs were drooping as if they were turning to lead. I cracked the whip across his calves, again and again, and he lifted his legs. We came up to challenge for second place. Stride-for-stride we headed towards the line together. The jockey at the front was very experienced. She glanced round at the two of us battling it out for second place, and smiled. With a hundred yards to go, I punished my pony for slowing. “Get on!” I yelled. The ladies in the crowd had jumped to their feet and were shouting, it was an incredible atmosphere. The girl I was battling for second place with now flicked her whip and cracked it across her mount’s broad back. He instantly responded and quickened, and the more she drove the whip across his back the faster he went.
My pony was flagging badly. I furiously scolded him and changed my whipping arm. The lazy beast now stumbled and swerved, refusing to run in a straight line. With increasing vigor I struck out with the whip, as I could see the lady who was second now challenging for first place. A jockey with bright orange hair went flying past me, her whip flying up and snaking vertically along the length of her pony’s buttocks. In desperation, I tried to use similar strokes. Another girl flew by, then another. All their ponies looked much fresher than mine. Just when I thought that I had been passed by all the other competitors, I heard a lady yelling behind me. She was very close behind as I could feel the air move as her whip hissed through the air and cracked sharply against her pony’s flesh. The winning post was now coming up, as I glanced round, I wasn’t interested in anyone in front of me, just this lone driver gaining on me.
Cracking my whip in all directions across my pony’s shredded back and rump, my only consideration was to endure that I didn’t finish in last place. With all my force I let fly, stroke after stroke. My lone competitor pulled up by the side of us. She was screaming at her pony to go faster and her whip was flying through the air in all directions. I shouted at my colt and thrashed him. Next to me I could see the shiny wheels of the other buggy glistening in the sunlight as they gently whirred around and around. We were running neck and neck, I looked at her and she looked at me, it was as if we were locked in mortal combat. She gritted her teeth angrily, I don’t know if it was at me or in sheer frustration. Both of us raised our whips and slashed the sweating, straining rumps before us.
Relentlessly I kept my animal going. Ladies in the crowd were shouting and whistling. A whole mass of them were leaping up and down. I wouldn’t give up. Nor would my adversary. Perspiration was literally running down her face, through her unceasing effort and determination. I let fly with another upward vertical stroke of the whip. Unfortunately it was like applying the brake. My mount almost leapt into the air and tumbled. Drawing back the whip, I realized that the end of it had flown up in between his legs. Perhaps it had caught him somewhere tender, but I didn’t really care. Once again I shouted at him and drove him with all my might. Only when I saw ponies being pulled up in front of me did I ease up with the whip and pulled back on the reins. The race was over.
I was puffing and blowing as I wrenched back on the reins and pulled my colt to a standstill next to my rival. She reached across and smiled, also breathing heavily, and shook my hand. “Hi, I’m Joanne. Thanks, good race,” she said. “Justina, yes, it was good fun,” I replied, catching my breath. We both laughed as we realized that neither of us actually knew who had beaten who, it didn’t matter anyway. Both of our ponies were well whipped across their backs and rumps. I clicked my tongue, my pony groaned as he fell into the traces and we slowly moved forwards. His feet shuffled lazily and he was puffing and blowing like a steam train. Flicking my whip once across his rump to wake him up, I commanded him to trot on, and clicked my tongue at him. I decided that whether I had been last home, or almost last home, I wanted to arrive back at the dismounting enclosure with dignity. “Trot on!” I said sharply, and gave him a couple of necessary slaps. Joanne followed suit, yanking her pony round. We both made our ponies trot, legs lifting high into the air, as we drove along the track through the clapping spectators. The first girls home were greeted by smiling owners, trainer and stable girls. Our stable lasses and owners looked less than happy.
All the jockeys had to go and weight in, and Sherry, looking most dissatisfied, unstrapped Just Dandy’s leg weights and handed them to me. After Joanne, I weighed in, and was told that I had driven with two and a half stone above the handicapper’s weight. If I’d had time to sort out the weights, perhaps I could have actually won. As Mirelle presented the winning jockey, owner and trainer with trophies, and the crowd cheered appreciatively, I realized that it could have been me. Damn Just Dandy! Horrible little pony! The losing jockeys were required to re-mount and drive their charges across to the collecting ring. All those required to report were announced on the public address. Beccy and Bobbie came up and told me how amusing they, and seemingly the rest of the spectators, had found the race of the slugs for last place. Sherry led us across the ring, where all the losers had gathered, and Beccy, Bobbie and a lot of other girls followed.
We had to sit tight and wait in a queue, as we were officially placed last, we had to wait at the back. At the front of the queue, I saw the first pony unharnessed and shackled, legs spread wide apart, across a bench. A tall, very pretty blonde in a white coat appeared. We were too far away to see her exact movements, but from the shriek which rang out, everyone knew what was happening. So the queue moved forward. Joanne dismounted as it was her pony’s turn for the chop. She came across and offered me a cigarette. She lit it for me then lit herself one. We needed to relax after our exertions. We smoked leisurely as we watched the blonde expertly operate. Her mount was dragged away and it was our turn. Beccy and Bobbie had come along to watch. Just Dandy had now regained some strength and actually tried to struggle, the little bastard. His original jockey, sporting a bruised cheek, had also come along to watch. The blonde gelder was most professional. Beccy handed out glasses of champagne and we all stood about and watched.
Sherry took the gelding away to a stable and we all went off to enjoy the rest of the day’s racing. Much champagne was drunk, much fun was had, and in the evening Mirelle threw a huge party. Apart from losing the race, I had to agree that the whole meeting had been a great success. Mind you, I was pleased that Just Dandy had got what he deserved, and I had to congratulate the beauticians for thinking up the race in the first place. Apparently, Just Dandy will be running in some chases next year. You never know, if I feel the urge, I may even drive him myself.
I’ll keep you posted.