GPCiMW Chapter 8

Daphne was completely right. She did look absolutely fantastic as a ponywitch And I absolutely was never going to let her forget it, even if she never competed in another race after this one.

Reaching out, I steadied Daphne before she could fall over. She tried to thank me, but her dildo gag, an enchanted length of rubber that had grown to fill her mouth and extended several inches down her throat, made her words come out as an indecipherable mumble.

I waited for her to find her balance before slowly letting go of her shoulder. Daphne straightened and took a single halting step forward. Then another, and another. Each step made the two small bells clipped to her nipples jingle merrily, nearly drowning out Daphne’s heavy breathing and soft grunts of exertion.

I followed directly behind her, my hand hovering over her shoulder ready to catch her at a moment’s notice. With her arms bound together behind her back in a long leather sleeve, Daphne couldn’t catch herself and falling really did seem inevitable given the impractical footwear that came with her outfit.

Daphne managed five more steps, each one made with growing confidence, before stumbling again. Her armbinder twitched as she instinctively tried to flail her arms and failed. I waited for the last moment as she tried to recover, then gently caught her and pulled her in against my chest when it was clear she was about to faceplant.

“Time for a break?” I asked gently. This was the furthest she’d gotten in the last fifteen minutes and I could see her legs trembling slightly from the strain.

Daphne considered the question, then bobbed her head slightly in agreement. It wasn’t really a nod––Daphne’s head was held firmly in place by the tight posture collar around her neck––but it got the point across.

“Sounds good. Let’s get you some water, it's about time for Grace to take her turn anyway.”

I carefully scooped Daphne up and carried her over to where I’d laid out a bunch of the pillows and blankets from the coven room into a makeshift rest area. I set her down next to Grace, also trussed up in a full ponywitch uniform, and adjusted some of the pillows to make sure she wasn’t putting too much weight on her bound arms or neck.

Grabbing a water bottle off the floor, I slid the slot on the front of Daphne’s gag open and slowly poured a trickle of cool water into her waiting mouth. Once I was certain she was properly rehydrated, I capped the water bottle, closed the slot in her gag, and took a step back to admire the view.

Daphne and Grace lay side by side on the pillows dressed in matching black leather. I really had to give it to the High Lord––not only was he one of the strongest living wizards the world had ever seen, but he also had damn good taste. After all, it was Alejandro Garcia who had initially popularized and standardized the previously obscure sport of ponywitch racing after his ascension to High Lord during the early thirteen-hundreds.

Over the years, the uniform had changed somewhat from the High Lord’s original design. According to one of the books that I had started skimming, it had eventually settled on its current appearance approximately three-hundred years ago. Originally every contestant was responsible for ensuring that their witches were outfitted to the letter of the rules, but these days the High Lord’s staff provided every wizard that wanted to compete up to five fully enchanted self-fitting uniforms––the High Lord’s continued contribution to his chosen sport.

Today, the uniform consisted of several pieces, all made from fine black leather and rubber. First were the boots. They had a large rubber ‘hoof’ beneath the first third of the witch’s foot and extended all the way to the wearer’s knees. The wearer’s foot was held in place at about a forty-five degree angle, but the boot didn’t have any sort of heel to compensate, making just balancing in them, much less walking or running, a challenge.

Next was the chest piece. It included a tight corset, straps that fastened tightly around the bases of the wearer’s breasts and then extended up to the collar, and another strap with two size-adjusting plugs that went between the wearer’s legs. Judging from the way both Daphne’s and Grace’s breathing had hitched when I’d finished getting them dressed, the small-looking plugs hadn’t stayed particularly small for long.

The next piece was the armbinder, a leather sleeve that held the wearer’s arms securely behind their back. It too was connected with straps to both the chest piece and the collar, and there were a number of self-tightening straps along the length of the sleeve that kept the wearer’s wrists together and pulled their elbows in until they were nearly touching. According to the same book, the enchantments on the sleeve ensured that the straps tightened exactly as far as they could without injuring the wearer and that they usually got stricter and stricter as a witch’s body grew used to the position.

The final major piece was the collar and attached gag. The collar was a wide band of leather that wrapped around the wearer’s neck and kept her chin raised and head held rigidly in place. Attached to it was another size-adjusting rubber plug, though this one had a hollow tube running down its length to allow for feeding and watering. It held the witch’s mouth wide open, with special slots for teeth and slight indentations for the lips, and expanded to completely fill the mouth and extend down the throat.

Though it looked like it should impede breathing, it was actually enchanted with an entire array of safety features personally designed by the High Lord that made sure the witch wearing it didn’t choke, was supplied with plenty of oxygen, and generally ensured that nothing went wrong.

Finally there were the mandatory adornments. A strip of leather automatically styled the wearer’s hair into a high ponytail and there was an entire list of different nipple decorations you could choose from. Mostly it was just a dizzying array of increasingly complex piercings and elaborate bells, but since I hadn’t pierced either of my witch’s nipples I’d simply chosen the least painful-looking clamps and the lightest possible bells.

Daphne and Grace both looked amazing, but I had to say that Daphne really filled out the uniform better than my redheaded second witch did. Grace just didn’t have the breasts or legs to really make everything pop, while the outfit really just highlighted all of Daphne’s best features. The way that the straps cinched around her breasts and how that the boots made the lean muscles in her thighs stand out was just…wonderful. Though the contrast between the black leather and Grace’s pale skin was something special too.

Leaving Daphne to rest, I tapped Grace on the shoulder. “You’re up.”

It took a few tries and a lot of support, but Grace eventually managed to get her feet under her and stand up. Then I led her in a wide loop around the training room, stopping often to let her regain her balance and catching her whenever it looked like she was about to fall. It took nearly twenty minutes, and by the end I could feel Grace shaking slightly with every step, but we eventually made it back to the pillows where we started and I happily congratulated her on the achievement with a kiss on the cheek.

“Excellent work, Grace. That’s the furthest either of you have managed so far! Now rest up, I think you can manage one more circle today.”

Grace bobbed her head in agreement, but mostly she just seemed relieved to get off her aching legs. Out of curiosity, I had tried to walk around a little on the tips of my toes, and it had been shockingly difficult. I wasn’t the most athletic person in the world, but I worked out consistently and wizards were naturally hardier than mundanes. It didn’t seem like much of a challenge, but it really was pretty exhausting and what Grace and Daphne were doing had layers of added difficulty on top of that.

Now it was Daphne’s turn again, and she reluctantly clambered to her feet, looking longingly back at Grace’s reclined form, before beginning another ponderous circle around the room. Seeing Grace’s progress lit a fire under her and she seemed determined not to be outdone, pushing herself to go further faster and with fewer falls.

I spent another hour working with my two witches, and by the end of it both of them managed two full circles around the training room. Hopefully soon they would be able to practice much more independently because I could see this getting pretty boring soon, but for now the sight of my tightly bound witches hobbling around, their breasts bouncing with every step, was plenty entertaining.

At the end of her second circuit, Daphne collapsed face-first onto the pillows and I gently smacked her on the butt. “Good job Daphne. Good job Grace. Now the book says I should let you acclimate to the uniforms as much as possible but still give you plenty of time to stretch and move around without it, so let's get you two fed and then you can relax a little. I think you’ll both be sleeping at least partially in uniform for the next few weeks.”

Daphne’s groan didn’t sound particularly enthusiastic, but that didn’t really matter. She’d said herself that she was going to hate it, but that it would be worth it in the end. Judging from how little progress we’d made today, I was very glad that Daphne had Seen what the challenge for this month was going to be. I didn’t fancy my chances if I had found out it would be a ponywitch race on the Wednesday morning before the challenge like everyone else would.

Two hours later, the three of us were relaxing together on my oversized bed. I had a half-dozen books stacked up beside me and was slowly making my way through the book Daphne had recommended: ‘Whipping Cunts into Shape’ by Archmaster Konjo Clareto. It wasn’t a very big book, only about a hundred-fifty pages long, but the font was tiny and there was a lot of information packed into it.

Like Daphne had said, there was a single chapter dedicated to ponywitch racing. Most of that was dedicated to the Archmaster’s basic training regime that he used to assess if a specific witch was worth investing more effort into. It wasn’t really designed for professional use––I’d never seen a proper race but I knew that some families bred and raised witches from birth just for racing––but for what I needed, it was perfect.

I didn’t have five years nor a mountain of specialized equipment like one of the other guides I’d checked out suggested. I had a month, and it wasn’t like any of the other wizards in my year had more time than that. I just needed to make the most of it.

The rest of the book included two-dozen more guides for various sports, some of which I’d never even heard of. It made sense that there were swimming, running, wrestling, and dancing competitions for witches––wizards loved showing off their covens––but what the fuck was witchball and what was the difference between witch equestrianism and what the mundanes did?

There were also a few chapters dedicated to general witch training and raising techniques. Some of them wouldn’t have looked out of place in a mundane fitness magazine. Others were probably considered somewhere between child abuse and crimes against humanity. The Archmaster firmly believed that both whipping and branding were good forms of disciplinary action for witches between the age of three and twelve, and that they should then be phased out in favor of temporary mutilation as the witch grew older. I firmly decided to ignore those sections of the book for now and keep reading.

Daphne lay curled up beside me, one of the books I’d gotten from the library lying open on the bed beside her, while Grace’s cute bubble butt was doing a more than adequate job as my pillow. I had been surprised to discover that Daphne actually knew how to read, something I knew for a fact was not taught to witches outside of those raised for certain administrative tasks. Grace certainly didn’t know how to read, and my mom hadn’t either when Dad bound her during his first year at Aglakok.

I wasn’t quite sure how being a seer was related to knowing how to read, but I chose not to press the issue. The look of unbridled joy on her face when I’d let her take one of the books, the first she’d ever held in her life as far as I knew, brought a tear to my eye and I made a mental note to find her something a little more interesting to read than ‘A History of European Ponywitch Racing From 1523 to 1971’.

Finishing the chapter I was on, an incredibly detailed ninety-seven step guide for training flexibility in young witches, I snapped the book shut and sat up. Daphne and Grace both turned to look at me, but I waved them away. “I have some things I want to do before dinner,” I told Daphne, “We’ll head down at 6:45, make sure you eat before we go.”

Daphne nodded and went back to her book.

I stood up and made my way back into the training room, closing the door to the bedroom behind me. I couldn’t afford to be distracted now, and my witches were certainly rather distracting. I had about an hour before dinner and it was finally time to try something that I really couldn’t afford to put off.

In theory, it should work. There was no reason it wouldn’t. However, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something might go wrong. I’d considered asking Daphne if she’d Seen anything, but ultimately something stopped me. Daphne hadn’t said anything when I’d spoken with her this morning and I ultimately didn’t want to rely too heavily on a gift that I did not fully understand.

I took a seat on the floor in the center of the room and closed my eyes. My breathing slowed; inhale on a count of seven, hold, exhale on a count of seven. My mind dropped inward. I floated gently past my thoughts and into my soul, my own ember of power orbited by two bound souls helping to guide me deeper into the core of my being.

Eventually I reached my destination, a patch of soul-stuff faintly discolored from the essence that surrounded it. I reached out and touched it gently, my illusory finger brushing against something with no mass or volume. Then my world lurched, and suddenly I was somewhere else.

I appeared in a cramped bedroom, paint peeling off the walls and dust caked heavily on the tiny, grimy window. I was cold, my threadbare blanket not doing nearly enough to ward off the mid-autumn chill, but I clutched it against my chest all the same for I knew that it would only get colder yet. The door creaked open and a plump, narrow-eyed woman bustled into the room. Anger and fear flooded through me in equal measure, and the rush of emotion was enough to clear my mind for the single crucial instant.

A moment of focus pushed the memory away before it could continue pouring over me. I had a lot of practice maneuvering through my father’s memories, though I rarely stumbled across such an early recollection. Dad had been a very emotional child and it made some of his memories unpleasant to explore.

I hung in pale nothingness for a moment as I gathered myself, then followed familiar currents deeper. The memory I was seeking was one I’d viewed countless times over the years and it only took a few scant minutes of flickering through hazy thoughts to find it.

I stood silently in a training room much like the one where my body sat now. My eyes were open and I stared unblinkingly at the training dummy before me. Taking a deep breath, I gathered my thoughts and reached into my spirit to grasp the power waiting within my soul.

A word and a gesture formed an outline. Will, sharp and filled with absolute resolve, filled in the outline to form an image. Finally power gave the image mass, and a point became a circle that became a sphere.

There was a sharp crack like the snap of a bullwhip. My body sagged, the exertion of that single spell leaving me light-headed and slightly dizzy. Still, I blearily focused on the target half-way across the room from where I stood. It worked, right? It had to have worked! I’d spent two weeks learning and refining the individual pieces, and it had to have worked.

There was a deep gouge in the target, three inches long and one across. It was vanishing before my eyes, the enchantments on the training dummy returning it to its previous state, but it was there. It worked!

Of course it worked, I told myself. How could it have not? I ignored the dozens of failed attempts I’d made over the last week. It worked. Just like it was supposed to. Just like I had known it would.

I focused again on the spell, the very first non-cantrip I’d ever managed to cast. The words and gestures rose easily to the forefront of my mind, utterly clear in a way they hadn’t been just minutes before. I––

I tore myself free of the memory, tightly clutching those final thoughts against what was certainly not my chest. My eyes snapped open and I looked directly at the target dummy standing just a few feet away from me. I spoke the words even as they rapidly vanished from my mind, my fingers moving on autopilot to form half-forgotten gestures.

I knew what I wanted, and the weight of my soul, buoyed by the significant mass of two bound witches, slammed into the hazy outline I’d shaped and turned an idea into action. There was a hiss of displaced air and a narrow furrow appeared on the training dummy’s chest.

It wasn’t much––even with nearly twice the power I hadn’t managed half of what my father’s spell had done––but it was something. My first real spell, just like it had been my fathers. Except, unlike him, I hadn’t spent two weeks agonizing over books and slamming my head against this problem.

I could feel it now, a vague imprint on the outer edges of my spirit. I touched it, pulling it up towards the surface. My lips moved, my fingers formed a suddenly familiar gesture, and I felt more mana pour out of me like water from a faucet.

Another line appeared on the dummy's chest. My lips curled into a smile. It would need a lot of work yet, but this one spell was not the point of this experiment. After all, my dad had learned far more than a single simple spell over the course of five years at Aglakok. Much more than a single spell. And, while I may not have all his memories, I had a lot of them. Most of them, in fact. This certainly had…potential.