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Breeding the Pony Girl, Pt. 08

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Carl Bradford
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Breeding the Pony Girl, Pt. 08

Post by Carl Bradford »

(This story is set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is commonplace for serious crime, unredeemed debt, or voluntary self-indenture. Eighteen years of age is the minimum for anyone in this world to be enslaved or have any intimate/sexual contact with slaves. This is pure fantasy.)

(The Breeding Barn Café and its staff appear by permission of Mr. Smith27.)

(Lois Spalding’s perspective)

The first step toward recovery is to admit you have an addiction. OK, I have an addiction, but I’m not ready to go cold turkey even though I’m addicted to something potentially more dangerous than many controlled substances. A little background:

I own the Spinning Wheel Pony Ranch, where we do a superior job of training human slaves to be ponies—mostly pony girls, but also pony boys and a few pony bois and stallions. Stallions not only race in a different class but perform an essential role (nudge, nudge) in rewarding the girls and bois.

At age 29, I was divorced (from an anal orifice named Jack Herrera) and too busy for much of a social life—to be blunt, I wasn’t getting any. That may explain why, some six months ago, I became fascinated with watching one of my stallions, “Stud,” as he serviced pony girls. At first, I just admired his oversized cock and the powerful musculature of his ass as he pumped in and out of his partner for the day (we have a big herd, so most days there was at least one pony girl who needed shafting, and Stud was the designated breeder.)

From thinking about Stud fucking me, it was an easy step (downward slide?) in my mind to my being in the position of the pony girl, bent over and bound to a mounting frame while Stud’s massive bat filled every inch of me. My stable boss and best friend, Mary Jacobs, helped me live that fantasy—one Sunday morning when few people were around, my alter ego as Pony Girl Ginger (named for my auburn hair) found herself gloriously used both by Stud and by one of my own employees who snuck a “piece of ass” from an anonymous girl left on the mounting frame. Quite apart from the fantastic sex, I realized that my helpless exposure, surrendering all control to other people, was a big part of the sexual thrill.

Like most addicts, though, I wanted more and more of that thrill. Even I blush at some of the things I’ve done, most of them recounted in previous parts of this tale. Eventually, I figured out that what really floated my boat was a combination of three factors: (1) Being well fucked after (2) surrendering my body to other people who humiliated and subjugated me all the while I was (3) fearing that I would suffer the embarrassment of exposing my identity and/or the horror of becoming an actual slave. I wasn’t dumb enough to want to BE a slave, but the fantasy of briefly living as one had an irresistible attraction to a closeted submissive. When I was jilling off, I reduced my addiction to one phrase: I needed to scratch my itch to be somebody’s bitch.

After I survived that first Sunday morning, Mary had suggested several outlandish “field trips” as part of what she referred to as “periodically pimping you out.” The most extreme suggestion she made was that Pony Girl Ginger should go to the Breeding Barn Café. That was an upscale nightclub where the “floor show” consisted of slave stallions thoroughly using pony girls, with their antics projected on big screens throughout the restaurant. After their very public mating, the girls would then spend several hours in private stalls of the “Petting Zoo” where, for a price, the customers could play with the ponies of their choice. Our ranch had a standing contract to provide a certain number of pony girls and boys to the Café every so many weeks, so it would be a simple matter to slip me in with the next consignment.


Mary was joking when she first proposed sending me to the Café, because the risk of discovery was so great—what happened if one of my social or business peers recognized Ginger? Still, the idea gnawed at my addicted libido until it became another step in my growing obsession with submissive slave sex.

Paradoxically, my daydream became achievable only because of a new safety regulation for harness racing. To protect pony girls from concussions, the Texas Racing Commission mandated a new safety helmet that included redesigned blinders. Traditional blinders, whether for a horse or a pony girl, were flat black rectangles that stuck out at right angles to the wearer’s face. While preventing the wearer from using her peripheral vision, these blinders still allowed someone standing directly in front to see the entire face. However, the blinders on the new helmet formed a curved visor that wrapped around the cheeks, sitting about one inch in front of the pony’s upper face. The portion directly in front of the eyes was shatterproof plastic that could even be given some magnification for ponies with weak vision. Although the wearer could still look straight ahead, this new design was almost as effective as a mask in concealing the wearer’s identity. (Of course, this helmet made the pony look like a sub-human android, a sort of “Robo-pony,” but that was the usual attitude about slave ponies anyway.)

“OK,” said Mary finally. “I think you’re right that the new blinders will conceal your identity while you’re being mounted, and I know you’re dying to have Stud do you in front of an audience. Remember, though, that our contract requires us to make each filly available for private use for three hours after the floor show. You’ve had a lot of fun while in slave or pony mode, but this is a new low, so to speak. For those three hours you will be a pony prostitute; can you look at yourself in the mirror after that? Besides, you’ll be absolutely alone with three different men or even groups who will use you any way they feel like. Remember what happened to Molly B last year.”

That did give me pause—we’d taken Molly B to the Sampson Slave Clinic Emergency Room after a session at the Café, a session where some drunk had torn her butthole a new one by viciously fisting her. She recovered, of course, but I worried about ANY woman, slave or free, being treated that way. Poor Molly B had nightmares (unavoidable pun) for months, but because she was a slave, the assault wasn’t considered a significant crime in Texas. The most we could accomplish was to persuade the Breeding Barn Café to blacklist the guy who did it, forbidding him from renting any of their ponies in future. That said, the part of my mind that was Pony Girl Ginger kept begging to be rode hard and put up wet (especially wet between my legs). My libido kept saying that I had taken more than one oversized dick—including Stud’s—up my secret passage, so I could handle the challenge/threat of some unknown guy using me like that again.

After much thought, I decided that I simply couldn’t pass up the opportunity to play pony slut at the Breeding Barn. Late one Friday afternoon, Mary and Hailie loaded Stud and a filly named Clarabelle onto the right side of a horse trailer that had a lengthwise wall that divided the trailer space into two halves. This permitted us to pull the by-now-familiar trick of stopping relatively close to our destination so that I could be strapped into pony mode, this time including the new type of safety helmet that Clarabelle also wore. (Once on the pony’s head, these helmets required a key to remove them.) While Hailie helped me change, we were very quiet so that not even the other two slaves would understand that their new “stablemate” was in fact their owner.

In addition to having my forearms bound behind my back, I was perched on my high-heeled pony boots, laced into a leather bustier that did nothing to cover my ringed nipples or my labia, and very conscious of the ponytail plug stretching my back passage. Besides the restrictions of my costume, I was also fitted with a horizontal safety belt that was anchored at four points to the walls of the trailer. Helpless, I rode in the darkened trailer as my heart and respiration rates steadily rose. I knew where we were going but had no control over what happened to me there; I was being pimped out as a hired pony girl to entertain high rollers, the kind of people who were normally my peers!


Finally, the trailer came to a halt, presumably at our destination. After what seemed like an interminable wait, Mary pulled on my bit to back me out of the trailer, then handed my reins to Hailie, who was already controlling Clarabelle. Next, Mary backed Stud out before installing a leash around his cock and balls and leading him towards the livestock entrance of the Café. Stud still had his hands cuffed behind him, although by the time he went “on stage” a rope would be tied to his elbows, behind his back, so that his hands and forearms were free to grasp his partner. Beside me, I heard Clarabelle nicker; I suspected that she, like I, was thinking ahead to the point when some pony stallion would grab OUR rear ends and mount us! Both of us tried to walk faster until Hailie reined us in and said, laughing, “Don’t worry, pony cunts. We’ll make sure you get well shafted tonight.” Ahhh—that’s what I wanted to hear and do.

Inside the building, Hailie led us aside and had us straddle open gratings to pee. As a free woman, I would never dream of urinating in such a lewd position while other people watched me do it—but now I wasn’t people, and Hailie was treating me like any other slave. Pissing through a grate in front of witnesses was one of the many little things that slave handlers did to remind their charges that they had no modesty, no autonomy, and no right to think of themselves as “people.” The fact that, because your hands were immobilized, a handler had to wipe your pussy and thighs as if you were a messy toddler only increased the sense of helplessness and humiliation.

The next step was to prepare a pony for mating. One at a time, we received a water bottle straw pushed past our bits to allow us to suck, all the while Hailie was whispering to arouse me: “That’s right, pony—tonight’s your chance to be a slave whore, to get mounted and used while the audience watches you on television monitors. Show the masters and mistresses just how much you love getting fucked to entertain them. Just a few minutes more, slut—keep your mind on making a nice, loud pony call when some stallion pounds your last pony brain cell away. And if that’s not enough sex for you, afterwards you get to be a pony prostitute in the Petting Zoo. Won’t that be fun?” (Hailie was, as usual, the consummate professional, doing everything to prepare the ponies for a humiliating public show even though one of those ponies was also her boss. Or maybe she just realized that I LOVED the sexual subjugation involved.)

Having turned Stud over to the pony whisperers, Mary reappeared to take charge of Clarabelle who now got the same foreplay that I was experiencing. The entire time, I could hear sounds coming from the main floor of the restaurant. There was a lot of raucous cheering, punctuated intermittently by lust-filled ponies crying out when they orgasmed—cries that their electronic collars converted into a frantic braying sound known as the call of the pony girl. I felt as if I were back in college just before running a 100-meter dash—simultaneously excited by the prospect and afraid that I would screw up. No sense worrying about it THIS time—I was the one about to be screwed up. I was so eager to be shafted that, like a well-trained pony girl, I began tossing my head and “pawing” the floor with my right boot.

“You’re a horny little bitch, aren’t you, Ginger?” giggled Hailie, slowly finger-fucking me to maintain my arousal. “Don’t worry, sweetie—it’s almost time for you to get bred.” In the back of my mind, I realized that I should be mortified and offended by having my employee talk down to me while casually toying with my body. But by now Hailie had already seen the depths of submissive depravity to which I fell—she was not only doing her job well but contributing to my pleasure, so I had no right to object, even mentally. The natural slave girl and pony whore Ginger, formerly known as Lois—no prick too big, no slave treatment too demeaning. That was me.

Of course, the situation wasn’t pure enjoyment. I had forgotten the next step, where Hailie installed a pony twitch onto the septum of my nose. A rubberized coating covered the teeth on the twitch clamp, and Hailie was gentle when she released the spring pressure on me, but it still stung. With a 6-foot line attached to the twitch, I was once again led around by the nose, trotting very quickly with tiny steps to reduce the chance of a painful jerk on my nose.

Hailie and Mary turned their docile ponies over to two good-looking women who ran the floor show for the Breeding Barn. They wore matching burgundy polo shirts, khaki cargo pants, cowboy boots & hats and utility belts hung with the usual instruments of slave wranglers—whips, shock batons, horse crops, and the like. This is where their similarities ended. The wrangler who took control of Clarabelle was a petite blonde whose nametag read “Amy Fleming.” A taller, voluptuous Hispanic named Sofia Viagra (I wondered how much grief she got for that name) with brown eyes and long black hair took my twitch rope. Even if I did not already have my forearms bound, mouth bitted, and nose clamped, I would have hesitated to argue with her.

“What can you tell us about these two?” Amy asked.

Hailie didn’t hesitate to throw me under the bus—or should I say, tell the exact truth? “Clarabelle is relatively new as a pony; this is her first public screwing, so she needs a firm yet gentle hand. Ginger, on the other hand, is a total slut who was born to the collar—she has no shame and enjoys getting shafted in all of her holes, the bigger and harder, the better. I don’t know what livestock you’re using this evening, but I suggest that a well-hung stallion like the one we brought—Stud—would bring out the skank in Ginger and give your guests a good show.” I should have felt insulted to hear my employee disparage me like that, but I was secretly happy that she was lobbying to get me laid properly.

“Sounds like a plan,” replied Sofia. “Some stallion called Arnold just shafted a filly until she literally passed out in orgasm; let’s see if Stud can get a sluttier performance out of Ginger.”

“As a matter of fact,” remarked Mary, deadpan. “I’ve seen both Stud and Arnold mount this pony slut, and she was a superlative whore with both of them.” Again, how could I argue with such a masterful summation of my character?

“You just gave me an idea,” the wrangler grinned as she quickly used her fingers to add lubricant to my cunt, then started walking with my twitch rope in her hand. “Come along, Ginger Slut.” As if I had a choice!

My first sight of the main dining room at the Breeding Barn was overwhelming. It was a huge, horseshoe-shaped enclosure with three stepped levels of tables plus a bar-level balcony where dozens of people seemed to be leering at me from the railing. Every table was filled on a Friday evening, with naked slave waitresses serving drinks, meals and oral favors. The hubbub assaulted my ears.

In the middle of the horseshoe was a large stage equipped with several mounting frames as well as cameras to project close-ups on the large suspended viewscreens. As we entered, the previous “contestants” were leaving, looking as if they had been ridden hard with cum streaks on their faces. With one exception: my wrangler signaled to another woman who was controlling a familiar-looking stallion—Arnold, the champion racer (and superlative fucker, I reminded myself with a silent smile) of Tribade Training Ranch. Ordinarily, a filly about to be publicly mounted would feel intimidated by such a well-hung male slave, but I recalled that Moira O’Neill, Arnold’s owner, had told me that most of the time her ranch just milked the stallions with strap-ons rather than allowing them to shaft fillies. Perhaps that’s why, even though he had just put on an x-rated show, Arnold was still at least half-erect now. In any event, Mistress Sofia wanted to keep him onstage.

She led me to the front of the stage, in the well of the restaurant’s horseshoe. Then she had me face the stage, away from most of the people, and ordered me to “Display!” This meant spreading my feet well apart, bending forward with my head between my knees so that I was looking at the audience upside down. This put my dripping cunt on display, spread wide open, while my ponytail (folded and banded to prevent soiling) stuck straight up in the air like a flagpole planted in my ass. It’s more difficult to do this than you might imagine when your arms are secured behind you. I was thrilled to be so obscenely displayed, but also thankful that the safety visor helped conceal my identity.

I heard a click on the public address system, and then the mildly sarcastic voice of Sofia boomed out, amplified manyfold.

“Ladies, Gentlemen, and Sluts. I’m sure you were as impressed as I was when Arnold [she gestured towards him] did such a great job of breeding that last pony. So, I think it’s only fair that we give Arnold an encore. Those of you who are close enough can see that this filly [she slapped my butt so hard that I’m sure a handprint appeared) has been branded by the well-known Spinning Wheel Ranch. I’m told that Ginger is such a size queen that at various times she has accommodated not only Arnold’s massive whacker but also an equally-well-endowed stallion at the Spinning Wheel, known only as Stud.” She gestured towards Amy Fleming, who was grinning as she led my champion pony boy out on stage.

“For your entertainment, therefore, I propose that we let these two boys spit-roast Ginger.” (Another round of applause.) “Arnold had already pounded that poor filly, Rebecca, unconscious with lust, so this time we’ll give him something that few ponyboys ever get—a chance to get sucked off until he shoots. And at the same time, we’ll see if Ginger can really accommodate THIS bat” (as she reached over to fondle Stud’s rampantly-erect manhood).

“The drawback with spit-roasting,” Sofia resumed her monologue, “is that with her mouth full the filly won’t have much breath to issue a pony call to tell us how much she loves being plowed by these animals. So, we may have to re-arrange things after one of these stallions seeds her first, OK?” (A final round of applause.) “Let’s git to it. May I have a volunteer to lubricate Ginger’s openings?”

She clicked off her microphone as an eager young guy, who appeared to be just the minimum age of 18, rushed forward to grab a latex glove and bottle of lube from a side table. He enjoyed thrusting his coated fingers well up into my cunt, then popping out my tail to do the same thing in back before replacing the plug.

Next Sofia, pulling on that damned twitch, led me up onto a mounting stand where she promptly secured me. Twice before, I had enjoyed the fear and anticipation of being in this position, waiting for an oversized guy to impale first my mouth and then my cunt. This time, however, I was on display in front of hundreds of wealthy customers—some of whom I undoubtedly knew!—waiting to be double-teamed by TWO stallions. The very idea was nirvana for my slutty libido. As I’ve said before, I was addicted to this combination of sexual use, helplessness, and public humiliation.

My split personality became more schizoid than ever. Mentally, Ginger the slutty pony girl was thanking Lois Spalding the careful trainer for making sure that Stud got to screw two ponies yesterday and none so far today, a combination designed to ensure that the stallion could maintain a long-lasting erection without shooting his load too quickly. Ginger was in for a thorough shafting!

The twitch forced me to look straight ahead, but I heard a TV camera being moved in for a tight shot of my mouth, which was already hanging open and salivating at the prospect of a meal of man meat (I found out later that there were already floor-mounted cameras to show the invasion of my throat and shaved beaver). Someone shot a last squirt of water into my mouth, and then an unknown wrangler led Arnold up until his bulbous head—the little one—was JUST beyond my mouth’s reach. I risked getting my nose tortured by trying to reach him with my tongue but couldn’t quite make it. I also heard the sounds and felt the vibration as someone, presumably Stud, moved between my widespread thighs and some wrangler’s hand spread my labia in preparation for the penetration. My heart was racing and I couldn’t wait to get impaled on what looked like two feet of major-league dick. Thank heavens that someone took pity on me and finally removed the twitch clamp.

Then Sofia’s voice boomed through the speakers again. “Honored guests, I’d like you to help me with the countdown to this double penetration. Let’s start with FIVE!” As my anal plug began to vibrate, the audience joined in with her, shouting “FOUR! THREE! TWO! ONE!”—at the end of which Sofia told my two perspective partners, “Fuck that slut!”

I felt like a car caught on the tracks between two on-rushing railroad trains. In a split second I was gasping for breath around Arnold’s awesome auger head while Stud’s muscular thighs bruised my spread buttocks and his prodigious proboscis plunged into my pussy. (To be honest, I thought of all those words after the fact, trying to describe the physical and emotional impact; at the time I was just conscious of being more completely possessed, more thoroughly FUCKED than ever before in my life.) And then the two young stallions adjusted to each other so that I was buffeted back and forth as they took turns impaling me and partially withdrawing.

What a rush. The third time I exhaled, I attempted to give voice to my excitement, and a microphone amplified the lust-filled moan that came from my voice converting collar. I should have blushed at the volume of applause that acknowledged my sexual surrender, but I was too busy trying to live through the moment.

It's difficult to explain how overwhelming this experience was. A girl has to have some secrets, so forgive me if I don’t tell you about my youth—suffice it to say that I had been DPed and once even made airtight (three at once.) If you’ve read the previous portions of this tale, you know that, over the preceding several months, I had been spit roasted by two good looking wranglers at the Longhorn Slave Market, and again by two dominant lesbian women at the Tribade Training Ranch. Still, that night at the Breeding Barn Café was one of the ultimate sensual experiences of my life. First, I had to accommodate two VERY well-hung young stallions, either one of which would have been enough to get me off. Then, I had to accept their usage while I was in one of the lowest, most submissive forms of slavery imaginable—reduced to a pony girl with my arms and legs restrained and unable to even communicate as a human being because of the voice conversion collar. Finally, all this happened in full view of hundreds of wealthy and sightly inebriated people, many of whom I knew. As a sex-crazed bimbo pony girl, I was already the object of their amused scorn and jokes; I could only imagine what would have happened if someone had “outed” me as Lois Spalding, wealthy, businesswoman. I would have had to move to another planet to live that down, and the possibility of such an eventuality contributed to the fantastic stimulation I felt. Mary later showed me a video of the closeups that the Café had thrown up on the screens, and I found it difficult to recognize myself. Sex, submission, and humiliation—the trifecta of stimulations.

(Stud’s perspective)

OK, the first time I thought I was kidding myself, but now I’m starting to believe that, for some strange reason, my ice princess owner, Mizz Spalding, is playing pony girl, bent over in front of me while I screw her brains out.

One Sunday morning four or five months ago, one of the ranch’s pony whisperers had me mount a pony that I had never seen before nor (until tonight) since. There were a lot of strange circumstances associated with that mating, but the bottom (pun intended) line was that I had the opportunity to bang this VERY shapely pony girl with red hair but whose ass had none of the tanning, musculature, or branding found on every other female slave at the Spinning Wheel Ranch. Because this unknown filly seemed to resemble Mizz Spalding, I had fantasized that I was servicing that uptight BITCH who owned me. (I didn’t hate her because I was her slave. I had accepted the reality of my criminal enslavement, and even my responsibility for the situation. But this woman bugged me—one minute she was whipping me because she claimed I was arrogant, and then the next she was staring, slack jawed and stiff nippled, at me while I pounded a filly as instructed. Why was she on my case?)

Anyway, back to that Sunday morning. While I was balls deep in this redheaded girl, who seemed to enjoy the coupling as much as did I, a distraction had occurred so that all the free people in the barn left the two of us alone for a few minutes. I decided to use this opportunity to indulge in my personal obsession, sodomy. With no one around, I extracted the tail plug from her rear portal and substituted my own ramrod. Having breached her sphincter, I took a few minutes to gently stretch the redhead’s intestines before resuming my usual pistoning. Once she adjusted to the intrusion, she seemed to enjoy getting shafted like that, and even pushed back against me. That filly’s back door felt tight, warm, and simply fantastic, and the skin on her magnificent cheeks was like warm velvet. I also got to imagine that, for a change, I was giving Mizz Spalding a pain in the ass instead of the other way round. Probably the finest four minutes of fucking in my entire life up to that point, before I blasted into her butt and then popped the tail plug back in to hold my little critters inside her.

Even though there were cameras all over the area, no one ever punished me for cornholing that tall redhead. For weeks after that tryst, I looked eagerly at every female on the ranch but never saw any auburn-haired women. Except, as I’ve said, for the famous Mizz Spalding, and even MY twisted mind couldn’t come up with an explanation as to why SHE would end up at the other end of my dick on a mounting frame. But it was a nice fantasy.

The last time I saw the ranch owner was this afternoon, watching as her minions loaded Clarabelle and me onto a horse trailer. I had figured out that it was time for the Spinning Wheel Ranch to send another consignment of ponies to the Breeding Barn Café. (The ranch had loads of fillies to send but only a few stallions like me.) Always before, such a consignment consisted of one stallion plus two or three fillies. This time, however, I’m certain that Clarabelle and I are the only two slaves on the trailer because the truck starts moving as soon as she and I were hooked in. They stop somewhere partway through the trip, and I hear a lot of shuffling and scratching on the other side of the trailer divider. And then, when we arrive at the Breeding Barn, that strange redhaired pony reappears miraculously from the trailer. Only this time, this pony called “Ginger” has the ranch brand on her butt, plus a very light tan on the rest of her body. Since (as I know) she’s been a pony slave for at least four summer months, why isn’t her skin darker? Working the night shift? (joke)

Add all this up, and as the self-described “Slave Sherlock Holmes,” I have to conclude that there is a real possibility, however small, that the woman bent over in front of me, choking on that damn stallion Arnold (who beat me in a race two months ago), really IS Mizz Spalding, ice princess and tight-assed bane of my existence.

All this internal debate has helped me avoid cuming too quickly; it distracts me when I’m enjoying myself too much, and the thought that I might be shafting the bitch goddess is the icing on the cake.

(Insert about five minutes of grunts, moans, one muffled call of the pony girl, the sound of flesh on flesh here.)

Arnold is speeding up, grabbing her ears and face-fucking her frantically. I gather the guy has already shafted one pony girl this evening, which is probably the reason he hasn’t finished in her mouth yet. Ginger is clearly having difficulty with breathing, but the little moans and whinnies that come out of her converter collar indicate she’s truly enjoying this. I try to distract myself by watching Arnold’s beefy face so I don’t get too desperate myself.

Suddenly, Arnold climaxes and staggers backwards; the first blast must have gone into Ginger’s mouth but the rest seems to spray all over her face. He’s finished.

Ginger and I, however, are not. Someone sticks the tube from a water bottle into her mouth while she coughs and frantically tries to deal with the sticky load she just swallowed. Once she catches up on air and water, she issues another triumphant pony call, evoking much laughter from the audience. I’ll take credit for that orgasm, which must be her third this evening.

Just then, the handler’s sultry voice comes on the public address system again, this time giving me one of the finest gifts of my life: “Let’s hear it for Arnold!” (a scattering of applause.) “Now that Ginger, here, is free to show us how happy she is to get used, there’s one more opening we need to stretch for her. All those in favor of Stud cornholing her?”

This is followed by even more applause. Someone pulls back on the leash loosely attached to my scrotum, forcing me (reluctantly) to withdraw from that sopping vagina. But the same hand pours water soluble lube over my prong as someone else reaches a latex gloved hand in and jerks the pony girl’s tail plug out, then guides me into that marvelous passage that I tried out several months ago. Damn, she feels good; I’m forcing myself to be gentle at this point, for fear of tearing her. Come to think of it, I KNOW this girl can accommodate Little Stud up her wazoo, because she already did it once!

True to her billing as an insatiable slut, Ginger (or whoever she really is) lets loose a triumphant horsey cry and begins pushing back, firmly, in an attempt to engulf even more of my dick.

Neither of us can last much longer. An idea pops into my head, and I suddenly know how to solve the “Mystery of the Redheaded Pony Whore.” I lean forward across Ginger’s gyrating back and bite down firmly on the side of her neck, trying to mark her with a hickey. My teeth sink into her as close to her jaw as I can reach. She jerks in surprise, then again presses backwards onto my cock just as she comes to a VERY audible, shuddering climax and collapses.


(Lois Spalding’s perspective)

I registered that Stud had bitten me, but at the time it was just one more element of pleasure-pain in a much more complex sexual experience.
As I recovered consciousness after that epic mounting, I felt Stud’s sticky cock slapping across my face—Arnold had already given me a facial, but it was a tradition of the Breeding Barn to allow stallions to “mark” their bitches after using them. Thank heavens I had multiple enemas that afternoon! All this happened in full view of the clientele of the Breeding Barn.

Next, I heard Sofia’s sensuous, mocking voice: “There you have it, ladies and gentlemen. You sometimes hear a slave being described as ‘Born to the Collar,’ and I think you’ve just witnessed a true example of that in Ginger. This little filly has now taken almost a foot of cock in EACH of her three openings, and all that penetration seems to do is make her climax more strongly than before. Let’s give a hand for the redheaded puta, shall we?” This was followed by the loudest roar I’d heard all evening, which occurred just as, with shaky legs, I stood up from the mounting stand. The only way I could think to acknowledge the applause was to kneel down facing the audience and kiss the floor, abasing myself and evoking another round of clapping before Sofia led me away.

Once out of public view, Sofia led me to another grate to piss, then turned me over to Hailie. Gone was the judgmental trainer who had aroused me, belittled me, and sent me off to be rammed at both ends as a public whore. Now Hailie was kinder and more maternal than my mother had ever been, cuddling and wiping and stroking and generally encouraging me. You can say that any good slave handler knows how to administer after care to protect the merchandise, and that would be true. Looking back on it, I’m sure she had long since recognized just how self-destructive my sexual proclivities were, and as my loyal employee—and I like to think as my friend—she did her best to glue me back together when the consequences caught up with me. Even knowing that in the back of my mind, however, Hailie’s treatment of me over the next 15 minutes was so loving and reassuring that I can never think ill of her.

At the end of that time, I had been wiped down and cleaned up, watered and even fed a little chocolate. Haile didn’t say anything, but I knew that we had to hurry to prepare for the second half of my self-inflicted debauchment: three hours in the Petting Zoo performing, as Mary had put it, as a pony prostitute.

Considering how Sofia had just marketed me as an insatiable slut, I had no doubt that the Breeding Barn had found three customers each willing to pay top dollar to top me for an hour at a time. The businesswoman in me regretting that the management didn’t share that income with my ranch—we just got a flat fee for each filly and stallion we rented to them. But the not-so-closeted submissive part of me really didn’t care about the money, except to think that being rented out as a pony piece of ass—actually, three separate pieces of pony ass over three hours—was delightfully wicked, yet another way to let myself be helplessly exploited as a sex toy. The thought of someone else profiting by selling access to my body gave me such a rush that my perverted mind began to play with the idea of being a slave street walker, call girl, or glory hole cocksucker. I had to pull my mind up short, reminding it that I was already sufficiently at risk being left in bondage to be used by a stranger in almost any way he/she chose. Going beyond that as a pretend slave sex worker was too risky even for me.

A few minutes before 7 p.m., Mistress Hailie, resuming her usual role as a demanding slave wrangler, marched Pony Girl Ginger to room 2D in the Petting Zoo. The room contained many restraints as well as a daunting array of butt plugs, strap-ons, nipple clips, riding crops, and the like. Two cameras monitored the place, but we knew from the painful experience of Molly B that the management was unlikely to intervene except when the customer seemed intent on dismembering or killing the slave.

When I first negotiated the contract to supply fillies and stallions to the Breeding Barn, the manager had told me how they ran the Petting Zoo; at the time, I had never imagined that I would be one of the animals to be “petted!” In the daytime, the Petting Zoo was often staffed by trainees from the nearby Parker Equestrian Center or even (I had been surprised to learn) by free women who enjoyed giving their husbands or lovers a nooner by playing pony. (These women had signed Texas Free In Name Only agreements to serve their lovers. In retrospect, if I had had such a lover I could probably have played the same game at much lower risk to my body and reputation!)

These daytime trainees and imposters typically found themselves bound to a breeding bench and left for the use of whatever customers wandered by—on more than one occasion, a free woman pretending to be a pony had ended up being used by a stranger rather than her lover! On a Friday evening such as this one, however, the livestock were almost exclusively genuine pony slaves leased from the various ranches. To give the paying customer more freedom to exploit such premium merchandise, the handlers removed the pony’s forearm binder and instead chained her in an X-shape, with the key left by the door so that the customer of the hour could rebind his rental in different positions.

This was how I found myself that night, hanging from two chains in the ceiling while another two chains held my ankles well apart. I still wore my safety helmet and visor (thank heavens) as well as a tight bustier, voice conversion collar, high-heeled pony boots, and of course that damned butt plug (Hailie had flushed out my rectum and coated both openings with lube, but anyone who has been reamed by Stud is certain to feel tender back there for several days.) Facing away from the door, I waited with beating heart, unable to even see my temporary owner unless he/she chose to adjust my position.

I can’t have been waiting more than three minutes when the door opened and closed behind me.

“Well, will you look at this redhaired slut! We’re going to have a lot of fun together, girl.” The voice was not only somewhat slurred in pronunciation but VERY familiar.

Shit! My own horniness had put me into this position. For the next hour I was going to be the helpless toy of my son-of-a-bitch ex-husband, Jack Herrera. And he was drunk, as usual.

(To be continued)
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Re: Breeding the Pony Girl, Pt. 08

Post by jeepster »

Wow! That was a really good continuation of the story! The ending wasn't what I expected but that makes me want the next chapter now!
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Re: Breeding the Pony Girl, Pt. 08

Post by Hooked6 »

Really well-written and most enjoyable chapter.

The really intriguing re-design of the now required blinders by the great state of Texas was clever in its conception. You had teased us, Carl, in a previous post, that something new was coming in the way of pony head gear and I am happy to say that you didn’t disappoint. The helmet was well described and easy to visualize as was the clever description and use of the nose twitch.

I would also be remiss if I didn't say I also think you outdid yourself in the normally uninteresting but necessary summary of how Lois got to this point in her life. You not only managed to give the requisite details of previous chapters but you also gave us previously unshared insight into Lois’s mind and added some much-needed anticipation and tension into the story that many authors would have just glossed over in their introductory paragraphs. In all sincerity, your introduction could (should) serve as a tutorial to many newer authors as to how such story summations should be presented so as to entice readers to get deeper into a story. Your technique is quite effective in coaxing existing readers already familiar with the story to not skip this re-hashing of previous events.

Congratulations to both you, Carl, and Mr. Smith on the breeding barn as well. I can see many opportunities for a concept like this. The horseshoe shaped, stage-like functional area, the TV monitors, the bar where customers can relax and enjoy the entertainment is really a great idea and a natural extension to modern slavery.

Hallie still remains such a colorful and naughty character that I think I am in love. :lol: I hope she continues to make appearances in your most excellent story. She isn’t mean, or mechanical, as many Domme’s are characterized, but rather she is more on the playful side enjoying what she is doing and knows how to please both readers and her submissive.

Most emphatic compliments in a job well done. Looking forward to the next chapter!

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