Breeding the Pony Girl, Pt. 06

[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/sexual contact with slaves. This is fiction; no one should ever be deprived of free will, still less used sexually, without his or her uncoerced permission.)

(Mary Jacob’s viewpoint)

Here we go again. Several months before these events, my boss, Lois Spalding, and I had faced each other inside one of the horse trailers belonging to Lois’ Spinning Wheel Pony Ranch. At that time, we had just arrived at the Longhorn Slave Market, and we were undressing before we voluntarily accepted slave rules to be kennelled at the market. During that strange overnight stay, we both got thoroughly fucked before the ranch’s brand was seared into our buttocks. This time, the trailer was parked at a rest area off Interstate 10. And this time, unlike our trip to the Longhorn, my clothes were staying on while I tried not to gloat as I watched Lois again strip slave naked.

Lois was clearly excited about her “field trip” as a pretend slave, but her nervousness found expression in hesitation and whining. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this—three days in pony harness, without even a guarantee that I’ll get laid in the process.”

“A cute filly like you in a ranch full of horny cowboys?” I scoffed in a friendly manner, trying to reassure her. “Nonsense. What’s more likely to happen is that you spend the entire three days getting thoroughly stuffed with cock and won’t get any real training out of this expensive trip. In that case, as your stable manager, I would recommend that you NOT deduct the $1500 fee as a business expense for training ponies. Knowing you, it’ll be more like a vacation. At the very least, I’m sure every hand who trains you will unload into your mouth, just to get to know you.”

If this sounds confusing, a bit of background. The Spinning Wheel was a highly profitable business that trained some of the top human ponies in Texas for both harness (sulky or buggy) racing and sexual service. Ordinarily, when we acquired a new pony girl (or, infrequently a pony boy) that showed promise as a racer, we would train her or him for a few weeks, just to break the slave in and ensure obedience. After that, we routinely boarded the new slave meat out to the Jamison Ranch, which specialized in training new recruits to trot (with upper legs reaching the horizontal as they high step) like champion ponies. It was just more efficient to let the Jamison staff pound the basics into new fillies before we began our own advanced training. Of course, it was an open secret that the Jamison Ranch, like most of the other pony spreads (pun intended) in Texas, also ensured that a new filly got something ELSE pounded into her openings. So long as you didn’t have sex with a pony just before a race, the experience of orally servicing free people and regularly accepting cock (or strap-ons) into their bodies seemed to make pony girls happier and more eager to run.

What does this training have to do with Lois stripping in a horse trailer? She had developed a fascination for sexual domination, pretending to be a pony girl slave for the thrill (to her) of being thoroughly mastered and laid. So far, she had gotten herself reamed (front and back) by her pony boy stallion Stud, gang-banged (along with me, I must admit—actually kind of fun!) by four slave wranglers while she was strapped into a rigid frame waiting to be branded, driven around her own ranch in full harness (with reins connected to both mouth bit and nipple rings), and most recently yielding all three holes to an inspector from the State Department of Agriculture. That inspector insisted that he had to tie her down and interview her every 3 months to make sure that, as a free woman, she was “voluntarily acting as a slave.” Of course, his idea of ensuring that she was a “free actor” was to fondle her until she begged him to screw her in any opening he chose! Nice work for a guy, if you can get it.

These experiences had only whetted Lois’ appetite for playing sex slave, hence my plan to book her into the Jamison Ranch disguised as Ginger, just another newbie slave pony who needed to “learn the ropes.” Literally.

We were parked about 40 miles from the Jameson Ranch, but this rest stop was the last convenient place for her to transform into Pony Girl Ginger so that she would be ready to train and serve when I dropped her off. First, she pulled on a pair of very tall pony boots, equipped with chunky high heels and small horseshoes on the soles. Next, she positioned the leather bustier that supported (and highlighted) her breasts. When I finished tightening the laces, she could just about breathe, but the contraption acted like a high-end bra, compressing and lifting her B/C cups, complete with pierced and ringed nipples, to put them on display. On my command, she spread her legs and bent low, allowing me to lubricate both of her openings before installing the thick butt plug that held a folded ponytail to match her auburn hair. Then she reached behind her back, placing each of her hands against the opposite elbow so that I could wrap her in the sleeve that held her arms completely helpless. Finally, I installed a headdress that included both eye blinders and a high comb to pin her gorgeous locks into a pseudo-mane. Now approaching her 30th birthday, dressed as a pony Lois was sex personified, and no one was likely to recognize Ginger as the self-confident, conservatively-dressed owner of a ranch. Even I had to resist the temptation to fondle her.

We had discussed and rejected installing the usual voice converter collar that changed human speech into horse sounds. Without it, she could still speak, but she had practiced a meek little voice quite different from her ordinary one. Besides, the bit in her mouth should distort her speech anyway.
Before I installed the bit and bridles, however, I used alcohol swabs to disinfect a spot on her shapely left ass cheek, right next to the Spinning Wheel brand indelibly fried into her skin. Then I pulled out a small, zippered case and extracted a syringe. Holding the needle up and plunger down, I carefully ensured there was no air bubble in the thing. Her nervousness visibly increased as she watched me.

“Are you sure I should get some horny juice?” She asked, speaking very hesitantly since she was already as defenseless as any real slave. We were good friends and this whole gig was for her pleasure, but it’s never wise to irritate someone when you’re completely at their mercy.

“It’s up to you,” I shrugged. “But, this is going to be a very long, strenuous weekend for you, and a shot will help keep you sufficiently aroused to work hard and enjoy any fucking you get.” (“Horny juice” was a cocktail with low doses of estrogen, progesterone, and other chemicals that as the name implies tended to make a pony girl easier to arouse. Some ranches used it regularly to make docile, eager slaves, but Lois and I agreed that the risks of cancer and other complications weren’t worth it; we only gave limited injections to ease new pony girls into their training by making them more responsive to the kind of sexualized attention we used to reinforce good performance.)

She acquiesced by repeating one of the standard slave mantras, “I live to serve you, Mistress,” followed a moment later by a quiet “ouch” as I punctured her rump.

“Don’t you forget it, slut,” I said in a friendly tone of voice as I gave her a gentle hug. “Just remember that for the next three days you’re NOT in charge. Think of it as a vacation from decision-making, if nothing else. Just do what you’re told and enjoy your real-life fantasy. Now, open wide.”
When she complied, I installed a cushioned bit and bridle in her mouth and around her face, then hooked the other ends of her bit reins to the tiedown bar at the front of the trailer. Next, I encircled her slim waist with a safety belt, then connected the belt to four ropes on the sides of the padded trailer, holding her upright. I also clipped her “tit reins” onto the nipple rings and fed the leather back through another pair of rings under her arms. For the moment, I did NOT tie the ends of those reins down—she was going to be sufficiently uncomfortable for the next 45 minutes, standing in a swaying trailer with her arms restrained and her mouth and waist tethered to the trailer. I didn’t want a sudden bump to jerk her nipples—I’d let the trainers at the Jameson Ranch give her that thrill!

I hugged “Ginger” one more time, rubbing her lower back until she relaxed, resigned to her fate. I gave her a gentle slap on her right buttock and walked out of the trailer. Two minutes later, with the ramp retracted, I restarted the truck and merged back into traffic on the Interstate. On the dashboard, a small video screen showed my not-so-little pony, legs spread several feet apart and shifting her weight easily to accommodate the movement of the vehicle. Not for the first time, I thought about the value of such a video as part of a fetish porn tape. Our video record of the Ag Department inspector was even more arousing and incriminating, as it showed Lois Spalding morphing from free woman into pony girl who was then “interviewed” (begging to be used in all three of her openings) by the inspector. Good thing I cared too much about her to sell those videos!

(Lois Spalding’s perspective)

After bouncing around in the trailer for what seemed like hours, I reached the Jameson Ranch. In case anyone was watching us, Mary acted very much the busy stable manager—she led me briskly down the ramp and tied all four of my reins to the nearest fence railing, ordering me to “stand” which required me to freeze in position even when she gave my butt a resounding slap of departure. Her counterpart at the Jameson Ranch, Mark Walcott, scrawled his signature on a receipt for me; they were both experienced trainers who felt that things such as checking my Slave Identification Number (SIN) might give the impression that they didn’t trust each other. A handshake, a promise to retrieve the pony on Sunday evening, and Mary was driving out of the ranch gate in what seemed like seconds.

I had played slave in various ways, but this was the first time when I was completely alone. I was 120 miles away from the wealth and possessions that gave me power in social situations—not only was I penniless, bur the only “clothing” I wore were pony boots and a bustier—neither of which covered the important parts. No one at the Jameson Ranch knew my identity. Mary and I had come up with a risky way of concealing my freedom: even if they looked up 875-33-9443 in the National Slave Registry, they wouldn’t find any indication that I was of free status. Instead, as a bonded slave merchant, Mary had modified my data in the slave registry. My real name was now buried at the bottom of the file, after my naked photographs. The file identified 875-33-9443 as “Ginger,” a 25-year-old who had self-indentured herself for college money. Once I got back home, Mary would eliminate the fake data.

If I didn’t return, and Lois Spalding were to disappear, the sheriff would ask the registry for my SIN, and they would trace the fake data entries back to Mary. At that point, she would “have some ‘splaining to do,” but she had witnesses—including her husband as well as pony trainer Haile Wilson and even the operations manager of the Longhorn Slave Market—who could testify that Lois Spalding really LOVED playing pony girl. I had given her a power of attorney to dispose of my body, and all she had really done, she could argue, was fail to register my enslavement properly.

I admit that the power of attorney was a risky and convoluted way of covering our tracks. We had even considered a Texas Free In Name Only (FINO) agreement that made me her de facto slave. But, all we were trying to do was conceal my identity temporarily, not make me into a real slave. A FINO would require consulting a slave psychiatrist and leave a trail of documents so that others would find out about my strange hobby.

To be honest, I got a little thrill every time I thought about that power of attorney—I was that close to being a real slave, which for a closet submissive is the ultimate fantasy. But now, as I stood tied and helpless at the Jameson Ranch, that fantasy suddenly seemed all too real. I trusted Mary implicitly—I must have to let her leave me in this vulnerable position. Still, for all I knew she was still smarting (perhaps literally smarting) from the time I had pressured her into playing slave along with me, in the process getting herself pierced, branded, and thoroughly shafted. She could have already copied the power of attorney and registered my enslavement with the Agriculture Department. The very idea that Mary would betray me like that seemed paranoid, but when you’re a half-naked, helpless pony girl surrounded by strangers, paranoia comes with the territory. As Woody Allen once observed, “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t after you.”

All these thoughts raced through my head. I was already excited by a combination of my own submissive libido and the “horny juice” Mary had given me, so my body couldn’t make up its mind whether to have a heart attack or an orgasm about being, for all practical purposes, enslaved.

I still held my legs and back braced, breasts thrust forward, in obedience to Mary’s last command. That stance required that I stare at the ground straight ahead of me, but out of the corner of my eye I saw a handsome guy looking me over: brown hair with a touch of grey, sunglasses, about 4 inches taller than me, and muscular without being beefy. You might accuse me of lust at first sight, but he was a good-looking man who suddenly had absolute authority over me—a combination of factors guaranteed to gun my lust engine. I’d never met him, but from his photographs on-line I recognized this paragon as Richard Jameson, third-generation owner of this ranch.

Either I was betraying my nervousness or Richard was a very good trainer, because he decided I needed to be calmed. Slowly, as if afraid he would spook a horse, he walked up to me, making soothing sounds and complements (free people who dealt with slaves tended to talk to those slaves as if they were pets. I usually spoke to my livestock the same way, so it was both familiar and humiliating to hear someone describe ME as a “pretty pony,” “good girl,” and so on.) Then he was rubbing his hands firmly all over me. Most of his touches (they were too rough to be called caresses) were on my neck, shoulders, and all 4 cheeks, but he also included TITillating intimacies including cupping my breasts and thumbing my nipples and clit into stiffness. Even though I knew that this behavior was standard procedure when dealing with pony girls, I couldn’t help feeling pleased and slightly aroused as he talked to me like his favorite animal. Everyone likes to be complimented, especially by a good-looking guy who has control over your situation.

*****

After I had relaxed, however, he turned me over to three pony hands for training. This marked the beginning of a three-day cycle that I recognized as a variation on Good Cop—Bad Cop. Considering what happened, it might be more accurate to describe this as Good Cock, Bad Cocks!

First were the Bad Cocks. I never really learned the names of my three handlers—names didn’t matter, since I was completely in their power and had to obey any order. I came to think of these two guys and one gal as Huey, Dewey, and Daisy. There seemed to be very few pony trainees on the ranch at the moment, which meant that I got attention from all three of these winners. Lucky me.

They were all slightly younger than me, somewhere in their early to mid-20s. Huey and Dewey were rail thin and slightly pimply, while Daisy had black hair and a generous figure. (I could be cruel and described her as overweight, but I know some guys enjoyed cuddling baby fat. Besides, given her power over my ponygirl identity it wasn’t safe to even THINK of criticizing her. Bitch.)

The two guys seemed to know the craft of training human ponies, but their approach to that training was equal parts of hard, repetitive physical practice and sexual teasing. For much of that long, long weekend, they put me on various machines to perfect my trot or high-step; my butt was soon red from getting walloped each time my step was less than perfect. They didn’t swing their whips hard enough to break the skin, but the swats motivated me to try harder so I could avoid the pain and humiliation of being treated like a disobedient child.

I will say that they kept me well hydrated and ensured I didn’t spend too much time in direct sunlight. When they thought I needed a rest, however, the guys would bend me over the nearest fence railing and then use my bit and tit reins to tie my ankles wide apart and close to the ground. Needless to say, I tried very hard to remain immobile in this uncomfortable position, because the slightest twitch would cause pain to my nipples.

Once they tied me down, Huey, Dewey, and Daisy all did their best to encourage me to move around. Spanking and fondling heated me up, after which one of the guys removed my bit but left the head harness on. This allowed him to cram his slightly sweaty dick into my mouth, while they alternated between a prick and a plastic strap-on to stretch me at the other end.

As an incipient cock whore, I have to admit that I enjoyed each penetration, provided I forgot my natural contempt for the penetrators. Therefore, I wouldn’t have minded such treatment too much, except that all three of them watched me very carefully to ensure that I did NOT climax from their treatments. When one of the guys got too excited, he would pull out of me and shoot his demon seed on whichever set of my cheeks was facing him. After which, they would resume pony practice while leaving me more frustrated than ever. For a submissive like me, the IDEA of being tied up, forced to suck on a guy, and then receiving a sperm facial is deliciously humiliating, but without an orgasm the reality soon gets old.

The woman whom I called Daisy was the most malicious of my tormenters. Her plastic probe never went soft, so she could (and did) literally “fuck me to tears.” When the two males left me hogtied in the shade over lunch time, she waited until they had walked away and then dropped her jeans, sat down with my head between her thighs, removed my bit, and insisted that I lick her to several orgasms. Which would have been OK (again, I’m being honest about my submissive instincts), except that the hot weather had made her untrimmed bush rather sweaty.

Throughout the weekend, Daisy kept up a constant stream of insults, to the general effect that I was a disgusting pony slut who was over the hill, not worth even manumitting because I was such a skank I would stand at the front gate and give my “aging whore’s body” away for free. According to her, I was fortunate that my owner had hired them to train me; otherwise, real men like her partners (she said with a teasing smile at them) would not even bother to waste their seed on my face—if my ranch wasn’t paying good money to have me trained, not even a pony boy would pay attention to me. And so on.

This act may have been deliberate, hoping to sting me into performing better to refute her insults. Still, her entire attitude conveyed a belief that she was a different, superior species in comparison to female slaves. She was also a bit of a cock-tease with her co-workers, and I’m sure she was very proud of her ability to manipulate their desires. Yet each time she walked away, I saw Huey and Dewey staring at her undulating ass with an expression that showed their desire to put HER into slave restraints. Apparently, no one had ever warned her that the sexualized treatment of slaves made men evaluate EVERY woman, free or collared, as a piece of ass for their use. She might wake up some morning in a harness herself (that thought made me smile, even though I didn’t want anyone to be enslaved for real.)

I quickly realized that, by disguising myself as Ginger, I had foolishly trapped myself in another version of my own system that used arousal and denial to turn horny slaves into obedient sex toys. The Jameson Ranch used a particularly insidious form of operant conditioning. At the Spinning Wheel, we ensured that every slave got laid at least once every four weeks, augmented by intermittent “reinforcement” at unscheduled other times. That, I always felt, might be a little frustrating but ensured that the pony eventually get some release. These Jameson trainers had gone one step farther, constantly teasing me while denying me the bliss of an actual orgasm. Again, studies with lab rats showed that, having first taught the rats a particular behavior by rewarding such actions, the sudden denial of ALL rewards would prompt the rats to repeat the desired behavior at a frantic pace, desperately seeking reinforcement. For a three-day period, they probably expected maximum results without ever getting me off.

Even though I recognized how they were manipulating me, I found it impossible to resist. I was hoist on my own petard of controlling sexual release. I’m not even sure what a petard is; I seem to recall it was some form of bomb, but at that point I would have welcomed an explosion in my vagina or rectum provided that I got off on the stimulation.

Of course, there was also the turn-on I got from just being in someone else’s absolute power. Looking back at that weekend, I have to admit that half of the excitement came from being a mindless, largely-naked toy for these three. At the time, however, I couldn’t decide whether satisfying my urge to be an obedient bimbo made me more or less frustrated by their teasing.

*****

About 8 p.m. on Friday, they finally called a halt to the fun and games and took me to a stall that included its own shower and toilet. Dewey released my arms and helped me out of the pony girl outfit, taking the opportunity to fondle, goose, and tease me yet again. I was so exhausted that I barely noticed. He urged me into the shower, left me a bowl of cold vegetable stew, and reminded me to be on my knees, waiting for my outfit, at 6 the next morning. I wearily showered, ate, and collapsed into bed, too tired to even jill off. Although this entire masquerade was about sex and the three morons had been teasing me unmercifully for hours, my sex drive went on hiatus.

Until next morning, when I barely got ready in time and had to resist the urge to masturbate while waiting for my trainers to restart my torture.
Whether or not the sexual frustration helped motivate me, I have to admit that my form and stamina improved markedly during that weekend. They left me very little choice. By Saturday afternoon I was exhausted, and my times for wind sprints pulling a sulky were getting worse rather than better. Seeing this, Huey ordered me into Display position, which meant facing away from them, legs widespread and bent over as far as I could go. With my arms bound behind my back, it was very difficult to hold this position for any period of time. Not to mention the fact that I was offering them an unobstructed view of my plugged rosebud and moist pussy.

And then I found out why I had to be in that position. I felt him remove and then re-insert the plug on my pony tail. Within seconds, the moisture and heat of my bowels caused the intruder to become hot. I instantly knew that the SOB had ginger-snapped me, spreading a concentrated ginger paste around the plug! Ginger isn’t nearly as hot as capsaicin, but it still stings like a mother when shoved up your behind (I had heard of this trick but refused to use it on my ponies. Being on the “receiving end” of ginger paste up my back end confirmed my refusal.) Huey chortled about “ginger-snap for a ginger,” then told me he wouldn’t flush it out until I did five sprints in a row that were fast enough to meet the time goals. Trotting caused the plug to move constantly in my rectum, and no matter how fast I ran, I couldn’t escape the burning sensation in my ass. He finally used a pre-packaged douche on me 45 long minutes later. Again, the memory of humiliating myself, dancing frantically because of the pain, is thrilling. But I’m not a masochist, so I have no desire to repeat that experience.

At the end of the second day, the Good Cock showed up in the form of Richard Jameson. I don’t know why the ranch owner would trouble himself with one pony girl, but for whatever reason he played the role that, in a traditional BDSM “scene,” the dominant might enact, providing after-care to comfort the submissive. In the process, of course, Master Richard took his pleasure from me, but he seemed to go out of his way to ensure that the pony slut received as much pleasure as she provided. Note to self: send more ponies to get his personal, hands-on training!

*****

(Richard Jameson’s perspective)

In an average year the Spinning Wheel Pony Ranch sent me eight to ten trainee ponies. Most of them were eminently forgettable—take them in, work them hard, and ship them out.

Let’s face it, most pony sluts have enough youthful freshness and tight musculature to be attractive, and the idea that they’re all available for use makes them seem sexy. Between their previous training and how they are edged for motivation, these pony girls are usually dripping with desire, eager to service any free person in any way. Beyond that, however, most ponies are fast food—interchangeable in appearance and taste, good enough to satisfy a temporary urge, but boring and easily forgotten.

This one redhead pony, called Ginger, got my attention, though—she seemed older than the average trainee, and she appeared to have been at the Spinning Wheel for several months rather than the typical few weeks before being sent to us. (Her brand was fully healed.) She was just as aroused and intimidated as all the other trainees who came to my ranch, but at the same time she had a kind of self confidence and grace that you don’t usually see in slaves, except perhaps for high-end sluts like the Sandy Foot Girls from the Big D Mart. In fact, I was kind of surprised someone hadn’t pimped her out as a pleasure slave instead of a harness pony.

Besides, I thought she needed a little down time after two intensive days of pony training. I try not to contradict my trainers, especially in front of the livestock, but I thought the three people supervising Ginger were going a little bit too far along the axis of belittle and frustrate. Maybe I need to break those three up; Charlene, in particular, doesn’t seem to realize that the guys around here would rather enslave her than listen to her talk. Meanwhile, Ginger was clearly trying her best to satisfy them, so the usual treatments were if anything counter-productive.

I told Charlene and her two compadres to take the rest of the day off. Instead, I tooled Ginger around the track a few times, had her run two more wind sprints, and then took her back to her stall.

Her reaction to being alone with me was confusing. On the one hand, she was clearly still horny, but on the other she was even more shy than most new ponies, constantly turning her face down and trying to avoid looking at me. To persuade her to relax, I tried being very impersonal and matter of fact, not even fondling her as I would normally do with any obedient slut.

Once I secured the stall door, I unbound her wrists, removed her bit and headdress, and loosened the ties on the back of her bustier, all the time trying to avoid any direct contact. As neutrally as possible, I asked her if she would behave.

She responded with the conventional “Yes, Master,” but even though she no longer had a bit in her mouth her voice sounded artificial to me. You remember that comedy on TV, the one about a bunch of science nerds at a California school? One of the characters was a research biochemist with a killer body, driving ambition, and steel-trap mind, but her voice squeaked like a little girl. Ginger didn’t sound quite THAT odd, but that meek little voice just didn’t seem to go with such a tall, confident beauty. Oh, well, slavery hits different people in different ways.

I sat down and waited, trying not to creep her out as she slowly, painfully removed the rest of her outfit and shuffled into the shower to clean herself up. I noticed that she used the enema bag and nozzle hanging in the shower stall—either she was an anal freak or, more likely, one of my over-eager employees had gingered her tail and she wanted to clean herself out. Yet another thing to discuss with those three tomorrow. I want to arouse my trainees, not torture them.

Eventually, Ginger emerged from the shower, hair still damp. Without any false modesty about her svelte body, she dried off, hung up her towel to dry, and knelt down to eat the bowl of vegetable stew that had appeared through the cuff hatch on the door.

When she finished that, the pony washed her face, then shuffled over and knelt in front of me. Up until then, I had thought she was ignoring me because she never looked in my direction. Now, however, she clearly expected—perhaps even hoped—that I would use her body. Staring fixedly at my boots, in that same submissive little voice she murmured “Thank you for allowing me to clean myself, Master. How may I serve you?”

I stood up, unzipped, and sat down again. “Since you’re already in position, why don’t you use your mouth, pony?”

Her response was as meek and emotionless as her previous words, but there was nothing uninvolved about her performance! She used her hands and mouth to stimulate my cock and balls, efficiently arousing me. Somehow, she even managed to caress my scrotum by rubbing it between her lovely tits. I was fully erect in less than two minutes, at which point she began slowly swallowing me while her hands added to the sensations. When my head encountered the back of her mouth, she paused, took a deep breath, then straightened her throat and inhaled another few inches. In twenty-some years working with slaves, I had rarely had a female who combined such technical skill with an obvious if contained passion for service. If she had been younger, she would have been a prime candidate for pleasure slave or slave consort, and even at her current age—late 20s? early 30s?—Ginger’s owner could have hired her out for $500 per hour.

This deep throat performance inevitably tilted her face upwards, but even then she managed to keep her eyes downcast and half closed. Slaves are taught never to meet their owner’s gaze, but this was taking that rule to extremes. Normally, in fact, a skilled cocksucker like her knew to stare soulfully into the guy’s eyes, trying to convince him that blowing him was the greatest oral treat imaginable.

Even without that worshipful stare, I suddenly realized that I was about to fire my load down her talented throat. That would have been fun, but I had taken charge of her because I thought SHE needed to get off as well.

So I stood up suddenly, leaving her mouth wide open. The pony’s cute face took on a look of surprise and disappointment; I suspect that she thought I was again teasing her while denying her even the limited pleasure of swallowing my swimmers. As gently as possible, I told her that it was time for her to get fucked. A wide smile appeared on her face as she scrambled onto the bunk, head down and knees apart, then reached back to spread those well-shaped buttocks and offer me a choice of portals. Because they were treated as livestock, pony girls normally got mounted from behind, so her stance was perfectly normal. In fact, I couldn’t remember when I had last taken a slave in the missionary position, but I was vaguely disappointed that her face and boobs were obscured in her new position. I could have ordered her to roll over, of course, but if she expected to be bred like an animal, so be it; I was too turned on to waste much time.

Besides, she was offering me a nice view of her fine ass. Her little starfish was almost winking at me while her cunt seeped moisture. Some male chauvinist pig once said something to the effect that all women look and feel the same from that angle, but that wasn’t true. Again, a typical pony girl’s rump is rather thin and muscular because her primary function, even more than sexual service, is to be a draft animal. After two intensive days of training, the muscles on Ginger’s butt, legs, and thighs were certainly prominent and tense, but she also had just enough adipose tissue (fat for those of you who slept through slave anatomy) to make her gluteus maximus appear perfectly rounded, marvellously soft, and incredibly inviting. Without conscious thought, my hands roamed over her butt cheeks, teasing her two openings with one hand while the other gently traced the spinning wheel brand embossed on her left hemisphere. I’m a third-generation pony rancher, but the sight of such perfection made me wonder again why her owner would waste such a magnificent pleasure slut as a pony girl. Imagine being a jockey in the middle of a race—the sight of those buttocks pumping rhythmically, right in front of you, would be too distracting.

And then, as I absent-mindedly fondled her the way I always treat ponies, she moaned, sounding like a combination of frustration and deep arousal.

*****

(Lois Spalding’s perspective)

After two days as a 24/7 pony girl, I was so deeply into subspace that I would have been happy just to have this quiet, handsome guy shoot his white protein shake down my throat. When he said it was time to fuck, I was frantic to feel him inside me—preferably in my slave cunt but, if he insisted, up my ass would at least satisfy my desire to be used by a master. But then he had stopped short of actual insertion. I couldn’t see his face, so I couldn’t tell whether he was teasing me again or just enjoying himself. Those fingers felt almost like a lover’s caress, and I couldn’t help moaning.

I guess he didn’t mind, because less than five seconds later “Master Richard” had taken full possession of my birth canal and he was bent over my back so that his hands reached around to tease my nipples and my little knob. He went in easily because I was already so turned on. At first, it seemed as if he was taking his time because he wanted to ensure I enjoyed his love-making—but then I mentally shook my head; you could expect such an attitude when you’re dating as a free woman, but very few slave owners gave a (literal) flying fuck about whether their possessions enjoyed the power exchange of getting shafted. OK, the slave handlers at the Longhorn appeared to take some concern for my pleasure when they gang-banged me, but reputable slave merchants encourage such attitudes to ensure their inventory is happy and horny on the auction block. That certainly worked for Mary and me!

As I was saying, Richard’s performance was worthy of a considerate man dating a free woman, and for a moment I had a daydream that he and I could have a “normal” relationship between free people. But then, my little field trip, pretending to be a pony girl precisely because I hoped to get used as a helpless slave, had killed any chance of such a relationship—Richard would recognize me long before we got into bed again, and I would be publicly embarrassed as a wannabee slut.

So, I settled for what I could get as Ginger when Richard decided to have some “stall time” with me—and that was pretty great, albeit short in duration. For me, this was a combination of good sex (with a guy rhythmically stuffing my body while kissing my neck and fondling all my erogenous zones) AND great submission (with a large, powerful man wrapped around as well as inside my body, rendering me completely helpless.) Superb fucking and fucking superb! Over the next ten minutes, my temporary master played my body as if it were a slave violin, evoking several shuddering climaxes before he finally discharged into me. Next, he cleaned me up, insisted I drink a large glass of water, and then cuddled me, spoon-shaped, until I fell asleep.

At 5:30 the next morning, the lights came on and the bell rang, signalling the ponies to get ready for another fun-filled day of sweating, straining, and teasing. Of course, Richard Jameson was no longer in bed with me--slave trainers don’t spend the night with their fillies. Still, the previous evening felt almost like a dream—until I saw that someone had patiently loosened the tall laces on my pony boots to make them easier to put back on this morning.

There followed another nine hours or more on Sunday of constant teasing, training, and insults. I was still in a happy daze from Richard’s masterful use, so my ego was Teflon-coated. It had been fun while it lasted, but I didn’t expect to see him again; he had a ranch to run and I was just one temporary boarder who would be gone by that night.

My case of “Happy, happy, Joy, joy” continued all day. I don’t know whether it was SOP or just a belated effort to get my attention, but during the afternoon “break” with me tied over the railing, the guys double-teamed me a little too long, causing Huey, Dewey, and me to all three have orgasms. I think Daisy was pissed to be left out. So much for tease and defer; their training was a lot easier to tolerate after they granted me an orgasm. And then I got a bonus meeting with Richard.

At 5:00 p.m., Hailie Wilson rather than Mary drove up to take me back to the Spinning Wheel. When I realized she was watching me, I was in a truly embarrassing situation. I had been staked out under a tree with my ankles pegged wide and my bound wrists tied to a limb above me, forcing me to bend over parallel to the ground. More importantly, I was frantically slurping on Richard’s dick as he gently screwed my mouth! NOT the image you want an employee to have of you as a boss, right? Blush.

*****

Richard tried to ask Hailie about me, especially whether the Spinning Wheel had a buyer for me. She was very respectful but insisted that she was “just a hired hand” whom Mary had sent to retrieve a filly; she didn’t know anything about my purchase or sale (which was literally true, since neither had ever occurred.)

At last, we got back to a rest area where she could free me and help me to dress again. I could see she was struggling not to laugh, so I told her to go ahead—after all the times she’d driven me around the ranch, not to mention being witness to my sexual subjugation, I had no right to demand respect from her; she did promise again not to tell anyone without my permission.

Mary knew me too well; she could see that I was not only tired but sexually sated. The next day, when I was still resting from my strenuous “field trip,” she pumped me for details of my training and immediately recognized that I had the hots for Richard. She tried to suggest that I should meet him socially; perhaps he would be amenable to a girlfriend who liked to play pony slut.

That was a nice pipe dream, but I told her to be realistic. By playing pony this weekend, I had literally fucked up any chance of a normal relationship with him. How could a guy respect a woman who voluntarily acted like a slave whore? In fact, I added, now I would have to avoid going to professional events for a while, for fear I would encounter him and he figured out Ginger’s true identity.

Mary just got that sneaky grin on her face, and suggested I buy colored contact lens to change my eye color when I went to such meetings. Besides, she still wanted me to try other “adventures in slavery” and reminded me that I owed her some cooperation since she had gone along with me when we were both branded at the Longhorn. She’s never going to let me forget that one, is she? At least she didn’t joke about using that power of attorney. Shiver.

(To be continued)

[jeepster]

Good chapter! Want to see somebody really treat Lois as a slave! Hailie?

[Mr. Smith]

Carl wrote,

I’m a third-generation pony rancher, but the sight of such perfection made me wonder again why her owner would waste such a magnificent pleasure slut as a pony girl. Imagine being a jockey in the middle of a race—the sight of those buttocks pumping rhythmically, right in front of you, would be too distracting.

I can see an owner sending a Prime slave for ponygirl training as it most likely leads to the development of slave mind quicker than pleasure slut training. There is a mental conditioning component that is involved for those who become ponygirls. A pleasure slut is still treated as a human in most ways. A ponygirl with a horse collar is now treated like an aniimal who can no longer communicate like a human. The Prime slave is given a choice of sorts. Stay a pony and still be sexually used or be treated more like a human but you have to behave. Just a thought.

I also think that you will see more Prime slaves as dressage ponygirls where the athleticism for harness racing is not as important.

I am really enjoying this series.

[bertrumm00057]

'A pleasure slut is still treated as human in most ways'
You kind of hit the nail on the head with this statement and general tone of your observation. Regardless of how 'pretty' a slut is, she should be worked, and worked hard. In my view, far too much of BDSM writing in general concentrates on sexual activity and 'pleasure' which, after all, is still pretty much vanilla, regardless of context and circumstances. Hard work and hard discipline will surely teach a slut her place. I know some may disagree with my outlook, but reading about endless fucking and sucking bores me to tears. It's still the creative and imaginative punishment and humiliation that does it for me. I really do think that those who want to read about 'pleasure sluts' and endlessly repetitive sexual activity could be better catered to in more vanilla erotica.
Just a thought.

[jeepster]

Thinking I would like to see Mr Sterling return and take her up on her offer! Drive her around the farm in the middle of the day!

[jeepster]

Also would love to see more of her 'track training' and pulling a cart! The story seems to skip over her being an actual pony slave! Now don't get me wrong I love the story so far ! Just some suggestions for future chapters and I understand if I am ignored!























i

[Carl Bradford]

The next part of this tale will, indeed, involve some BRIEF discussions of pony harness training. However, the title of this series reflects my personal (evil minded) preoccupation: Lois gets into these situations because she enjoys playing pony while someone is BREEDING her. Training the pony girl is a secondary concern, although I agree that it's a good opportunity to subjugate the pony. Please bear with me.

[jeepster]

My comment about the pony play was brought out be Richard Jameson's statement that he took her out and tooled around the track! There has got to be more to it!