Breeding the Pony Girl, Pt. 01

[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 to have any intimate contact with slaves. This is strictly a FANTASY—in reality, informed consent is always mandatory.)

(This is a two-part tale, inspired by the work of Mr.Smith27 as well as the novels of Jennifer Jane Pope. I may write more if readers are interested. Thanks to Mr.Smith for his review of the draft.)

(Mary Jacobs’ viewpoint)

Whack!
Whack!
Whack!

Each time the riding crop descended, it left an angry red welt across the tensed buttocks of the naked pony boy stallion strapped to a pole. The electronic collar prevented him from speaking, but the translator emitted a whinnying sound that conveyed pain and anger as he jerked against his bonds. When Lois raised the crop a 4th time, I grabbed her arm before she could whip “Stud” again.
Lois Spalding was the owner of the Spinning Wheel Pony Ranch, and I was her stable boss (which is more practical than a “stable genius”—besides, I vote Democratic.) Ordinarily, interfering when your boss is disciplining a slave would be a bad move, but Lois paid me an incredible salary to manage the huge investment she had in this ranch. Besides, she knew that if she fired me I would have a similar position, at higher pay, by the end of the day. Still, she glared at me when I asked her what Stud had done wrong.

“He’s just so . . .” Ordinarily articulate and aloof, Lois was groping for words, then finally spat out, “Arrogant! Who the fuck does this little slut think he is? He needs to be taken down a peg.”

“He’s a smug asshole,” I agreed, “But let’s not damage the merchandise, OK?”

“You deal with him, then,” she snapped, and stalked off. Even angry, her every move reeked of sensuality, and the eyes of three male stable hands all followed her undulating rear end and long, swaying auburn hair until she disappeared into the office.

Releasing Stud from the pole, I told him, sternly but calmly, that he deserved more than three strokes, and needed to work on his attitude. He nodded and his electronic collar turned whatever he said into a quiet “neigh.” I sent him off with a stable hand to the locked cage where, temporarily freed from his restraints, he was allowed to lift weights several hours each day. I’m well into middle age, but even I had to admire Stud’s rippling muscles and prominent genitals as he was led away on a leash. This time a FEMALE stable hand stopped to enjoy the view; he was a magnificent animal. The only slight flaw on HIS perfect butt was the circle star brand indicating he was a convicted felon slave.

I know that a pony girl/pony boy ranch sounds like some rich sadist wasting his or her money torturing slaves, and in some cases that’s true, unfortunately. In the rural areas of slave-friendly Texas, an owner can do almost anything short of murdering a slave and get away with it. Still, the Spinning Wheel was a top-of-the-line stable that actually made money by training and racing slaves, not to mention renting them to be publicly shafted for the viewing of patrons in places such as the Breeding Barn Café. We even rented them out, especially pony boys and stallions, to help train female slaves at places such as the Pearson Pussy Ranch, the Venus Academy, and the Broadstone Etiquette Academy.

Lois had inherited the ranch the year before when her father died. She didn’t just pretend to be a lady rancher, though—she actually moved in and tried to improve the business. And I have to admit that she had some good ideas about training and motivation.

The most important such idea was to apply operant conditioning to training the livestock. Lois didn’t deprive any of her property of food or water, which would have been cruel as well as risky for the investment. Instead, given the highly-charged atmosphere of sex and submission at such ranches, an atmosphere that often included injections to heighten the slaves’ sex drive, Lois used copulation to reward and punish her property. She believed that, by carefully scheduling sex, she could reward good behavior and motivate/ train the inventory to perform better in races or sex shows. She wasn’t unfeeling, either—she ensured that every slave, regardless of gender, got to fuck or be fucked periodically, unlike some people who locked all their male slaves into chastity cages and plowed their female slaves until they bled. Every slave at the Spinning Wheel mounted (for the pony boys) or was mounted (for pony girls and feminized pony bois) at least once every four weeks.

Still, Lois’ operant reward system meant that the staff got a lot less “pussy” than was normal in slave facilities like this one. Blowjobs remained a cherished perk for the staff, and every pony girl and pony boi had to kneel down and lick, suck, and swallow on command. And Lois was smart enough to continue the ranch’s tradition of celebrating the end of a race meeting with a de facto orgy. Known as Social Corral, at that party all the livestock wore only minimal restraints, free to fuck or be fucked by each other and by the stable hands.

The rest of the time, however, vaginal and/or anal sex was much more carefully regulated, with most of the ponies getting it only as a reward (or in the case of anal, sometimes a punishment) based on their performance. As a final twist, Lois introduced intermittent reinforcement. Ever since B. F. Skinner pioneered operant conditioning a century ago, its devotees have known that occasional, unpredictable rewards motivate higher and more sustained levels of performance than rewarded every action consistently. So, on a seemingly-random basis, any pony slave might suddenly get the chance to screw or be screwed—and the possibility of that opportunity motivated all of them, every day, to run their hardest and obey even unpleasant commands instantly.

*****

Lois’ system worked—we began to win more harness races, our trainees sold and rented for higher prices, and our pony girls actually had orgasms (as monitored by the sensors in the butt plug that held in their “tails”) more frequently and more strongly than before. And we spent a lot less time punishing them with crops and straps.

But the cost of this was a lot of unspoken frustration at the ranch. Pony girls (and the more transgendered of the pony bois) were constantly aroused, almost dripping with the unconscious expectation of being used, even though they might have to wait several weeks before actually copulating. Pony boys sometimes got their own intermittent reinforcement by suddenly being allowed to mount pony girls (thereby satisfying two slaves with one act), but again their minds were geared to expect sex at any moment while in reality that often had to wait for several weeks.

The staff, mostly fit young men, were frustrated because they no longer got casual “pieces of ass” (I may be an old woman, but I know how the boys think and talk) from the inventory—Ms. Spalding paid them more than her father ever had, but surrounded by semi-naked young slave women it’s hard to fault them for wanting more sex.

In fact only ONE person at the Spinning Wheel got sex on a nearly constant basis, because he was the designated intermittent reinforcement for most of the pony girls: Stud. He deserved it—as I said, he was incredibly handsome and well-muscled, and he regularly won any races in which he was entered. He was also so well hung that even I noticed, and I’m well over the hill. Stud was young enough—somewhere in his mid-20s—that getting an erection was never an issue for him, although it’s a good thing he had all those muscles so that his body found enough blood to pump his monster up to full rigidity. In comparison to the other ponyboys, Stud got laid so often that he was rarely in a hurry to finish. That meant he became an expert at prolonged fucking, giving the pony girls such a thorough shafting that most of them had multiple orgasms. And that, in turn, only motivated them to try harder, hoping for another mind-blowing reinforcement session with him.

I imagine that even Stud wanted more, especially having his hands completely free to play with the women he was given. I guess I should explain that, to maintain the fiction that this was all scientific, Lois usually conducted the “reinforcement” in a very formal manner. The chosen pony girl (Stud rarely had to service pony bois, who were usually given to other masculine pony boys) would have her arms, as usual, overlapping in a horizontal sleeve behind her back, wrist to elbow. For mounting, instead of the usual leash on a collar, a stable hand would clip a specialized horse twitch onto her—a padded clamp attached to the septum of her nose, forcing her to follow wherever she was led to avoid considerable pain. The stable hand would lead her to within sight of the mounting frame, then stop to fondle and whisper dirty promises to the girl, trying to arouse her. Of course, after the first time a pony girl had been well used in this way, the mere sight of the mounting frame often set off her arousal! If she were very skittish, she might get a sleep mask pulled over her eyes at this point. Once her nipples and clit erected, the pony girl would be bent over a padded railing inside the frame—her elbows tied to the sides of the grey, dull-metal frame, and in some cases her knees and ankles held apart by padded ropes. This presented her perfectly bent over and exposed for use, her long tanned legs spread wide and helpless. The nose twitch would be tied off to a hook over her head, forcing her head up and preventing her from looking around, even if she didn’t have a mask.

Meanwhile, another stable hand, usually a female one, acted as the “pony boy whisperer” to prepare Stud or whatever pony boy was going to be the aggressor. Pony boys typically had their hands either cuffed or sleeved behind them. However, for mounting purposes their hands and forearms were often left free while a rope connected their elbows behind their backs. This allowed the male to grasp the female’s buttocks and hold or even caress her while pumping. Once the elbows were restrained in this manner, the whisperer would talk to the male in a low, breathy voice while looping a rope around his scrotum, providing an effective leash as she literally led him by his balls. Then, holding the scrotum rope with one hand, the pony boy whisperer would don a latex glove on the other and spread lubricant on his cock, making sure to cover the entire surface and incidentally fondle him to full rigidity. Again, once they learned the procedure the ponyboys would become so aroused that they didn’t really need the extra stimulation, but Ms. Spalding liked to maintain the fiction that the staff were just manipulating oversized “lab rats.” “This is a training stable, not a pony bordello,” she would remark periodically in her disdainful voice.

Typically, the whisperer then led the stallion around to the front of the mounting frame, where the pony girl was expected to kiss and swallow his prick for a few minutes—if the girl resisted, the whisperer would pull on the twitch ring and the pain would cause the girl to open wide. Once the pony girl began to lick and suck, the whisperer would release the nose twitch. Finally, the stable hand/whisperer led the male back around the frame to mount the pony girl, guiding his shaft up against the pony girl’s vulva. That was usually more than enough guidance to prompt the male to thrust into her while grasping her hips—and the “reinforcement session” could begin!

I’ve described this process in detail for reasons that will become apparent later. For the moment, however, let me come back to my basic point: of all the people and slaves at the Spinning Wheel Pony Ranch, the LEAST frustrated person was Stud the stallion, while the MOST frustrated was the owner, Lois Spalding.

Lois had achieved her business goals, improving the ranch to make it more effective and profitable. Personally, however, she was very unhappy, and it took me a while to figure out why. I’ve already said that she was not only rich but beautiful and exuded sexuality.

At the age of 29, she hadn’t yet reached the stage of “my eggs are going bad, time to have a child,” but she certainly had a high sex drive. Yet, although surrounded by constant and explicit sex, Lois herself wasn’t getting any. She was divorced, very sensual, and alone. Conscious of her dignity as the boss, she considered it inappropriate to date or flirt with her subordinates, and insisted that they all address her as “Mizz.” The closest she came to a confidante was me, and even I didn’t know what bothered her for a while. (If you’re wondering about me, I’ve forgotten to mention that my husband, Bill, was the head cook on the ranch, and despite our ages we still made whoopie once in a while.)

During the reinforcement sessions, Lois usually sat behind the computer screen that reflected (and recorded) the sexual excitement reported by the pony girl’s butt plug. The graph clearly depicted each orgasm the slave experienced. About the same time as Lois had cropped her prize stallion, however, I noticed that her attention was wandering away from the computer screen. In fact, she was staring at Stud and especially at his cock and muscular behind as he rhythmically shafted his pony girl of the day. On occasion, Lois parted her lips slightly and began to breath more rapidly. It was obvious to me that she was fascinated by her prize stallion’s equipment and sexual performance.

*****

I waited until the following Friday evening, when work was done for the week and we had started our second beers, before raising the issue as if it were no big deal.

“You know, Lois,” I began (I only called her by her first name when we were alone.) “If you want some ‘stall time’ [my fingers hooked the air around the words] with one of the pony boys, it would be easy to arrange. If the hands can screw pony girls after race week, no reason why the owner can’t get laid once in a while. Or, if you want to keep it quiet, I could just cuff one of them to your bed one evening and leave him for you to play with. Nobody else needs to know.”

She tried to deny her interest, but saw that I wasn’t buying it.

“The truth is,” she began, but then stopped and started again. “God, I feel like a fool for even admitting what I’m thinking about.”

“Who would I tell?” I asked. “Come on, what’s on your mind?” When she finally conceded it, though, her next words blew my mind.

“I have this daydream where I’m tied on the mounting frame, tacked up as a pony girl, while Stud does his thing with me. The whole idea both thrills and repulses me.” She flushed with embarrassment.

After a pause, I replied, “I’ll admit that I did not see that coming. In a way, though, it shows that you’re growing as a pony trainer—empathizing with the slaves can be useful when you’re trying to understand them. But, you know you’re not the first woman to have fantasies of submitting as some form of a slave girl, and that doesn’t mean you’re weak or helpless in real life. Please don’t feel embarrassed. Since you brought it up, though, I have to ask: is this a pure fantasy, or do you want to do something to make it come to life?”

Lois seemed lost in thought for a moment, with a blank stare on her face, but then shook herself. “No,” she stated, VERY firmly, “It’s just a fantasy—sorry I brought it up.”

Mentally, I called “Bull Pucky” on her last statement. She clearly wanted to be a helpless pony slut on a mounting frame with Stud pounding her brains out. Of course, Lois might never have the reckless courage to bring that fantasy to life. Just in case, though, I added a few extra items to the ranch’s next order of specialized pony equipment . . . amazing what you can find on the Internet.

*****

Stud “reinforced” eight lucky slave fillies during the following week, bringing each of them to multiple shuddering climaxes and leaving them dripping, exhausted, and barely able to walk afterwards. Although Lois skipped performances by two other pony boys, she was always on hand when Stud strutted his stuff. And she continued to be distracted and slack-jawed during each performance. Now I was certain that she was imagining herself being covered by the pony boy stallion. More than that, Stud noticed it, too—even while he was fucking the heck out of an immobilized, nubile young woman, his kept sneaking peaks at “Mistress Lois’” slightly-aroused face, not to mention the nipples pushing against her tight blouse.

So, I was not at all surprised when, the next Friday evening, my boss again brought up her fantasy and haltingly admitted that she wanted it to become real.

“I’m assuming you don’t want anyone to guess that you’re the one on the mounting frame,” I remarked, quietly.

“Oh, God, no.” She shook her head. “It’s bad enough that YOU will know, but I’d die if the young hands were gossiping about their submissive slut of a boss. So, to answer your question, yeah, we need to figure out a way to conceal my identity.”

“Well, boss, I can’t give you an absolute guarantee, but I suspect that part of the fascination for you about playing pony girl is the risk of being caught, right? I’ve got a few ideas to manage that risk, such as doing it on a Sunday morning when most of our full-timers are sleeping off their Saturday nights. The part-time hands don’t know you OR the herd very well, so they’re less likely to recognize a strange, red-headed pony girl as the arrogant, rich bitch [again quotation mark fingers] owner of the ranch.”

“Is that how the hands think of me? Ouch!” Lois replied, then sighed. “I guess I have been coming on a little strong, but you know how difficult it is for a woman in authority to be taken seriously. Anyway, again yeah, I’d already thought about slipping in—or should I say slipping him in?—on a Sunday.”

“OK,” I pursued, “but you’ve got to understand that, for this masquerade to work, you will have to BE a pony girl. Once you’re in public and tacked up, you can’t balk or resist no matter WHAT happens, and don’t take offense if I call you names and punish misbehavior, got it?”

“I don’t want special treatment—I expect my highly-paid stable boss to train me like any other filly.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” I cautioned. “And, before we get down to the nitty gritty, you need to do two things—practice walking in pony girl boots, and pick an appropriate name for our newest filly.”

She smiled, almost smugly. “I’m way ahead of you, Mary. I’ve been practicing in boots every evening for the past two weeks. As for the name, what else would you call a red-headed filly except ‘Ginger’?”

I chuckled. “All right, then, if you think you’ve got the nerve, pick a Sunday morning and schedule Stud to reinforce Ginger about 8:00 a.m., OK?”

She took a deep breath, conscious that her erotic dream was about to become a frightening as well as thrilling reality. “OK,” she nodded.

The following day, I brought a package to her suite in the big house to show her what I had in mind. One of my tricks—perhaps the most important—was a fake sleep mask where the fabric over each eye, although it appeared solid, was in fact covered with tiny holes so that the wearer could get a fuzzy view of what was going on. I hoped that this mask would both conceal her identity and excuse any hesitancy in her responses to my lead.

Next, I presented her with a large bottle of lube and one of our standard sensor butt plugs. This particular plug was decorated with an auburn-colored tail, folded and banded into a short stub like that given to polo ponies or cavalry horses so that their tails did not hang down far enough to be soiled.

She was a little taken aback by this intruder, but acknowledged my point, which was that, for several evenings prior to the big performance, she would have to flush herself out down there and then install the large plug so that her body got used to accommodating it.

“Can’t we use a smaller plug, though?” She asked, rather plaintively.

“We could,” I smirked, “But we need to use the standard sensor package so that anyone who looks at the screen will see your orgasms, just like any other pony girl on the stand.” She flushed again at the realization that I was going to track her “performance” just as we had both observed the sexual responses of all the real slave girls on the ranch.

“Besides,” I added in a slightly-evil voice, “I want to preserve this experience, so I can give you a DVD with the film and sensor data of your ‘date’ with Stud! That way you can review it whenever you get lonely.”

Lois was far more startled, and then burst out laughing when I extracted my final gift to her—a John Holmes Special, extra-large vibrating dildo with the batteries already installed.

“Don’t laugh, honey,” I admonished her, snickering despite myself. “Your sexual history is none of my business, but I’d be willing to bet that NEITHER of us has ever had to accommodate a bat as large as our Stud swings. You need to try this thing out for the next few nights to be sure that you’ll stretch enough. Otherwise, your grand sexual fantasy will turn into an emergency visit to a gynecologist—and I KNOW you don’t want to explain to a doctor that you let one of your slaves tear you up down there.”

*****

(Lois Spalding’s perspective)

If you’ve read Mary’s version of the situation, you may have concluded that I’m either crazy or a closet submissive. If you’d ask me at the time, I might have confessed to both.

Don’t get me wrong—I have always enjoyed sex, and could sometimes get off on having a strong guy pin me down while he invaded my body, but I usually preferred making slow, gentle love as equals. This time seemed different. I knew I was horny for lack of sex. I also knew I wanted that magnificently-muscled slave stallion to screw my brains out, and Mary was probably correct that the helplessness and fear of discovery added spice to my dream of playing pony girl with him. This was an itch I had to scratch, and until I took the risk and had the experience, I wasn’t sure whether submission and slavery were a passing fancy or an enduring part of my sexuality.

Because “Ginger” was on the schedule for intermittent reinforcement, the ranch stock records had to have an entry for such a pony girl, in this case a girl about four years younger than me who had self-indentured herself to earn money for college. (The fact that she was a voluntary indenture would help explain the lack of brands on her backside.) Like most other Texans, I had been slave graded when I turned 18, so the Ginger file reflected the slave ID number tattooed inside my lower lip. It occurred to me that, without Mary vouching for me, I might have trouble proving I was NOT a slave, although the National Slave Registry still had the correct identity under that ID number. We also talked through the procedure for my breeding, as she insisted on calling it—I won’t bore you with those details now, since I’m about to describe what actually happened.

About six a.m. on the appointed Sunday, I let Mary in when she tapped quietly on my door. I hadn’t slept very well the previous night, torn between sexual excitement and fear of discovery and humiliation. Once I let my co-conspirator in, however, it seemed impossibly craven to back out. I was committed—or should I say, I NEEDED to be committed . . . to a mental institution.

I’d been up for hours, giving myself repeated douches and enemas and then applying fuck-me-red lipstick, far brighter than my usual neutral shade. The previous day, I had gone to town for a makeover, shortening my hair by several inches and painfully losing every hair on my body below the eyebrows. I wanted to look like a typical, slutty pony girl rather than the staid Ms. Spalding. When Mary decided to begin her control by abruptly telling me to strip, I dropped my robe, interlocked my fingers behind my head, and stood stock still, every inch a slave slut. I think she was surprised at my prompt compliance, but after a moment resumed her commands.

“OK, girl; I’m glad to see we won’t need to do any shaving this morning. Time to get you tacked up, starting with your boots.”

It felt vulnerable to be naked in front of her, but given what I was about to do, it was too late for modesty. I pulled on and laced up the bizarre footwear used for pony girls—a sort of high-heeled knee-length boot where the sole of each boot ended in a small horseshoe. In observing dozens of pony girls being mounted sexually, I had realized that the wide, high heeled part not only made the slave’s legs look sexier but raised her rump to assist the pony boy taking her from behind. Had I not already practiced wearing these monsters, I would have fallen over; thank heavens the leather provided firm ankle support.

Next, Mary—I guess I’d better start thinking of her as Mistress Mary—laced me into a very tight leather bustier that left my belly and groin, as well as the tops of my breasts, fully exposed while compressing and pushing up on the bottom side of each orb. I could barely breathe when she finished, but at least (I wryly observed to her) the thing made my cleavage appear to be in the range of DD to GG, so that no one would identify the result as belonging to Ms. Spalding, whose cup size was somewhere between a B and a C.

“Less talking, babe; pony girls don’t talk at all. Hands behind your back, one hand on the opposite elbow.” My employee and soon-to-be-mistress directed. Once my hands were in place, she strapped a leather tube around my forearms, leaving me well and truly helpless.

“Sit,” Mary pointed at a straight chair. We were both rather tall for women, but with the added elevation from my boots, she needed me to sit down so that she could install my headdress. Looking in the mirror, I saw her deftly sweep my auburn hair up into the crested comb that gave the impression of a horse’s mane. While she was at it, she slipped the fake sleeping mask over my eyes. It took me a moment to adjust to the fuzzy image, but then I saw myself in the mirror—blindfolded, hair upswept, and enough boob on view to feed an entire nursery. Surely, I thought, no one would recognize this brazen sex object as the conservatively-dressed, frigid owner of the Spinning Wheel Ranch.

Then I saw her carrying an electronic choker collar, obviously about to install it. Once on my neck, it would convert any attempt at human speech into horse sounds, depriving me of all communication after she had already eliminated my modesty and freedom of movement.

“Is that really necessary?” I asked, meekly.

She shrugged. “It’s up to you. Almost all of our ponies wear these collars 17 or more hours a day, so if you appear without one it will draw a lot of unwanted attention. Besides, imagine that you forget what you’re doing and talk in your normal voice—or even cry out in the throes of passion. You have a very distinctive, commanding tone of voice. Everyone would instantly recognize that the slutty pony on the mounting frame was actually their uptight boss—do you want to risk that?”

“I guess not,” I replied, and meekly raised my head to allow the installation. I reflected that one of the first positions every slave had to learn was “Collar,” and at that moment I was de facto a slave.

Once I was effectively silenced, Mary became even more demanding, instructing me to stand and “Display.” Hampered by my boots and the arm sleeve, I staggered to my feet, turned to face away from her, spread my legs to shoulder width, and bent my head down between my legs, exposing myself thoroughly with my butt being the highest part of my body.

“Any slave on the first day would be expected to bend farther than that,” she commented, dryly, so I attempted to bend even farther, barely able to breathe in the tight corset. She appeared to be satisfied with my posture, as I heard the “snap” of a latex glove being stretched over her arm. Here it comes, I thought.

A few seconds later, the matronly woman who had never before seen me naked thrust two fingers, covered with KY, between my labia and lubricated me thoroughly—although I was embarrassed to realize that I was already rather damp down there. Then, I felt a lubricated finger push firmly past my sphincter.

“Come on, darling, you know better than to tense up like that. Just pretend my fingers are Stud’s cock, and let me in.” Ha, ha. I thought. Having that stallion in my birth canal would be a dream come true, but having him up my butt could be extremely painful, maybe even dangerous. Still, I made the effort to relax and even pretended to defecate, allowing Mary to push one, two, and eventually three fingers of goo into me. They were followed by the substantial bulk of my tail plug. I heard a second snap as she discarded the glove, and so I stood up again.

“Did I tell you to change position?” She asked, with an edge in her voice. “Christ, you’re going to give yourself away if you can’t obey orders. Get back into Display.”

I bent over again, and was shocked to feel two quick whacks of her riding crop across my tightly-stretched buttocks. I immediately saw red, and mentally promised myself to chew her out when this was over. Then she told me to stand back up, and grabbed my collar to bring my face to within about a foot of her.

“Don’t tell me, the all-powerful queen of the ranch is pissed that I dared to give her two little love taps on her backside. If you’re worried about pain, wait until I have to lead you by the nose twitch! You should be thanking me, Lois. Not only does every pony around here have a few marks on her ass, but you need to get over yourself if you don’t want anyone to know who you are. For the next . . .” She looked at her watch. “Ninety minutes or so, you’re not Mizz Spalding, wealthy rancher. You’re Pony Girl Ginger, the newest and least significant piece of slave meat on this spread. (And by the way, ‘spread’ refers to both the land and the position pony girls find themselves in!) Do only what you’re told and do exactly what you’re told, got it? And as I said before, you’re going to have to submit to every person you meet. I know that your dream is to suck on Stud’s dick before he mounts you. But don’t forget that you might have to service another ranch hand who encounters you.”

I’m sure my face betrayed the shock of that idea, so Mary continued more gently. “Come on, darling, I’m doing this to make you happy. I will do everything I can to protect you and your identity, but stuff happens around here, and you know it. It’s Sunday, so most of the senior ranch hands are off today. And the owner of this fine establishment is nowhere to be seen, so the rules about using the livestock may be a little bit more relaxed than usual. That means that I MIGHT have to leave you to handle some situation. During that time, you need to be the most subservient little pony slut that ever came through the gates. And that means smiling as you ‘put out’ for every free person who wants to use you, agreed?”

I tossed my head and stomped my right hoof, the pony gesture for yes. She smiled. “One last decoration.” Ouch! I’d forgotten the bell clamps, which she installed on both nipples at once. Thank heavens she adjusted the tension so the clamps were loose; it hurt enough as it was.

Just as I caught my breath from this shock, I heard Mary’s slightly-mocking voice: “OK, then, Ginger—let’s go get you laid, shall we?”

(To be continued)

[jeepster]

Awesome start!

[lovethissite]

I agree great start.