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Breeding the Pony Girl, Pt. 09

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Carl Bradford
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Breeding the Pony Girl, Pt. 09

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 Petting Zoo appear by permission of Mr. Smith27.)

(Lois Spalding’s perspective)

It was my own damn fault. I was a wealthy divorcee who took pleasure in PRETENDING to be one of my own pony girl slaves. Periodically, my two trusted employees, stable manager Mary Jacobs and trainer Hailie Wilson, would dress me up as Pony Girl Ginger and send me on “field trips” in which, for a few hours or days, I would be a defenseless draft animal open to unlimited sexual use. Being a closet submissive, I loved being dominated and used by strong men (and occasionally women.) I had even gone so far as to have myself kennelled, under slave rules, at a slave market where I was gangbanged, nipple pierced, and branded on my left buttock with the mark of my own ranch. Some Saturday evenings, Hailie drove Ginger around that ranch, treating me like any other pony including teasing and belittling me.

This time, with Mary and Hailie’s assistance, I had really outdone myself. I wore a new locked-on safety helmet and visor that acted like a mask, making my face unrecognizable even though my body—including all three orifices—remained completely available. I think this disguise had made me over-confident, because now I had passed myself off as one of the fillies that, on contract, my ranch rented out for an evening as entertainment at the Breeding Barn Café. I had already had a thrilling time on the main stage where two extremely well-endowed pony stallions had stuffed my cunt, mouth, and finally ass to the jeers and applause of hundreds of restaurant customers. These customers were usually my peers and would have annihilated me socially and professionally if they knew my true identity, but I think the risk of exposure, like the risk of true enslavement, was part of the thrill for my twisted mind.

That was the first half of my service; for the second half, I was a pony prostitute, rented out for an hour apiece (with brief breaks to flush out my openings) to three different high rollers. I knew there was a risk that one of these masters/mistresses might seriously injure me, but to me this seemed like another irresistible opportunity to be subjugated sexually. So, I had been dripping with desire when Hailie marched me to a private room in the “Petting Zoo.” She had left me hanging by my wrists from two chains in the ceiling while another two chains held my ankles well apart. I was facing away from the door so I couldn’t even see my unknown temporary master.

*****

Only, I knew who it was the moment he started talking in an inebriated voice—the one person in the world I never wanted to be intimate with, let alone be at the mercy of—my MANY expletives deleted ex-husband, Jack Herrera. When I first met him we were both just out of college, and I fell hard for the façade he presented of a cool, funny guy. We got married in a hurry and for about two years it was blissful. I even revealed some of my submissiveness, letting him tie me spread-eagled to our wedding bed and have his way with me. (That was a fun game that eventually became the only sure way for him to get it up.) The marriage went south when I realized he was an alcoholic who was all talk and no ability or ethics. He lied to, cheated on, and stole from me until I finally realized he was hopeless. Thank heavens my father had insisted on a pre-nup; it still took a year of very painful blow-ups with multiple lawyers to get clear of him.

And now he had total control over me for the next hour. The helmet might suffice to conceal my identity from anyone else in the world, but this guy knew my exact hair color and had fondled and played with every inch of my body. Once again, thank the lord I wore an electronic collar that converted anything I tried to say into horsey noises; any version of my human voice, even crying out in pain (which I feared was about to happen) would have confirmed my identity to him. He could torture me for the hour and then blackmail me for life, probably including forcing me to give him my body on future occasions.

I almost threw up when he walked up, pressed himself against my body, and reached around to mash my boobs.

“Such a pretty little whore,” Jack remarked, still sounding like a happy drunk. “When I saw you on stage getting all your holes stuffed you reminded me so much of my ex-wife that I just had to have you. My wife was a frigid bitch [where did that come from?] who would never let me play with her. So you, my lucky slut, get to be a stand-in for her.” Oh, great—not only is he going to torment me, but in his drunken state he’s liable to decide that I really AM his ex-wife.

He tried to pry off my helmet, causing me to whine, but gave it up when he realized it was firmly attached to my head. Instead, he released me for a moment, although I heard him walking towards the side table that contained an array of sex toys and disciplinary devices. This wasn’t good . . .
My thoughts were cut short by the impact of three sharp blows, one after the other, across my ass. One reason they hurt so much, as I found out later, was that he was too unsteady to lay them parallel to each other. Instead, they fell on my flesh at different angles, making the intersections particularly painful. The simple shock of the impacts had forced me to empty my lungs in a scream, which the collar correctly converted into a whinny of terror.

I was still processing what was happening when I found out—the hard way—what he had used on my butt. I saw the blur of a riding crop as it swung in front of me and neatly hit BOTH of my ringed nipples. Oh, great—NOW he gets more accurate in his swing! Once again, I howled/whinnied, and was still in the midst of that howl when the crop ascended vertically between my widespread thighs, lacerating my perineum (also known as a taint for those of you who didn’t take anatomy) and the lower edges of my labia. (That one blow made me walk bowlegged, as if I had chapped thighs, for several days.)

“Now that we’ve established who’s in charge here, Lois-the-slut, you’re going to do exactly what I tell you to, aren’t you?” There was a menacing tone in his voice as I violently nodded my head up and down. It was clear that the [fictional] distinction between his ex-wife and the pony girl he had rented was already fading in Jack’s inebriated cerebrum. I had always maintained my independence and self-respect, even when we role-played as lovers, and it would take more than five strokes of the crop to break me. Still, what’s the old phrase from Star Trek—resistance is futile? I had to concentrate on minimizing my suffering during the next 50-some minutes of my self-inflicted hell.

“Good,” he grunted. He unlocked my wrists from the overhead chains but promptly cuffed them together behind my back. Then he released my ankles and demanded that I kiss his feet. It was difficult to drop down with my arms restrained, but I eagerly knelt and pressed my lips to the scuffed toes of his shoes. Before I knew it, he had pulled me up into a kneeling position, unzipped his pants, and sat down in front of me. No instructions were necessary as I went to work, trying to deep throat him in a way that the younger version of Lois never had done or even knew how to do.

I regained mental control after a few minutes, noticing that he was reasonably clean (for him, anyway) and that his equipment was stiffer and more inflated than it had ever been during our marriage. Of course, his prick —properly endowed men have cocks, but Jack was a prick with a tiny prick— was still on the small size, no more than five inches long, but he was more excited dominating an anonymous pony girl than he had ever been making love with his wife. I made a mental note to be thankful I had the courage to divorce him, otherwise it was clear he would have gotten his jollies from spousal abuse.

Meanwhile, I did my best to service him despite my pain. Being so ruthlessly controlled was not just horrifying but—I REALLY hate to admit this—slightly arousing. I DO NOT mean that I enjoyed being beaten, but now that we had (I hoped) moved beyond that, I could take some pleasure from submitting to a guy whom I had once found attractive. More practically, I wanted to appease his anger and get him to come in my mouth so that he would PERHAPS end the session early.

For a while, he seemed content to lean back and watch me worship him while he made a few remarks such as “You’re a GOOOOD little cocksucker, aren’t you?” [to which I nodded eagerly, trying to keep him happy] and “That’s it, bitch, you were born to serve me.” As his prick reached its full size, he leaned forward to seize the sides of my helmet and slowly push my head back and forth on his dicklet.

Jack was too crafty to settle for just a blowjob; I’m sure he paid 4 figures for that hour in the Petting Zoo—4 figures of money he stole from me! (I was mentally grinding my teeth about the fact that I had indirectly paid the Breeding Barn to prostitute myself to my Ex. And the only tip I got was the one between my lips. Talk about dumb!)

After several minutes while I recovered my composure and he enjoyed my mouth, he abruptly pulled out. Standing, he roughly helped me up and frog-marched me over to the mounting bench, where he strapped me down, butt high and head low, like a good pony girl waiting for her stallion. For a moment he fondled my ass and gave me several gentle hand smacks. In the process, he again remarked at how much I resembled his ex-wife—it’s not exactly flattering to be remembered for how your bottom looks in such a position! Then he started fondling the brand on my left cheek—he grumbled that his wife was too much of a prude to ever do anything like that. Of course, he was dead wrong, but I hoped that his mistake would remind him that he was playing with a pony slave, NOT the woman he both lusted after and wanted to punish. It seemed to work, since the remainder of his session was more bearable than the beginning.

What followed was both more routine and more in line what I had sought by putting myself in this predicament. Jack mounted me and began sawing away with his little prick while randomly stimulating my breasts and clit. Except for slight twinges of discomfort when he rubbed the places where the crop had fallen, it was almost a pleasure to have him shaft me. Although he was less than half the size of my other partners that evening, his unusual level of excitement meant that he gave me significantly more pleasure as a pony girl than I had ever experienced as his fiancée and wife. To be honest, some of that came from the latent thrill I received from his domination, but I found it ironic that he gave me the best sex he had ever inflicted—if that be the correct term—on me while he thought he was venting his frustrations on a faceless slave. And he paid for it with money stolen from me. Where’s Alanis Morissette when you need her?

He was having himself a good old time with my bound body, and I made enough pleasured sounds (translated by the collar) to indicate that I thought he was a real stud. Still, his drunken mumbling suggested that he was drifting back to the (correct) belief that he was using his ex-wife rather than a random slave he had rented for the hour. Something to the effect of how stingy and prudish that wife had been about denying him her body—which again irritated me because I had frequently let him fuck me in a hurry, in a manner of his choosing that often left me unsatisfied at the end.

This mumbling climaxed with his announcement that it was time to loosen up his “tight-assed bitch of a wife.” You guessed it: out came the ponytail plug and in went the half-sized penis in its place. Even though he wasn’t that big, I was still a little tender back there after Stud’s stellar reaming an hour or so earlier. But the discomfort was bearable and once again I told myself to take pleasure out of one of the ultimate examples of power exchange, being grudge-fucked up your butt by your ex-husband when neither of you could stand the other. Can’t get much more submissive than that, can I?

Fortunately for me, I guess, my colon was so stretched (by Stud) and lubricated that it didn’t give him much stimulation. That plus his inebriated state meant that it took him forever (or in real time, about 25 minutes) to fire his load up my well-travelled wazoo. I heard him remark that it was almost 8 p.m., which meant that his time was up. He uncoupled himself from my prone form, gave each of my cheeks a ringing slap, and said something illogical to the effect of “Fuck you and the pony girl you rode in on, Lois!” Then he chuckled and shuffled away. With the exception of the whipping—which I suppose every pony girl must suffer on occasion—his visit had actually been enjoyable. Just don’t ask me to repeat it!

*****

I only had a minute to gather my wits before Mary came in to clean me up for the next customer (or perhaps, since pony girls ranked just above robots, we should say the next user who would interface with me?) She didn’t know WHO had abused me until she removed the collar so I could tell her, but she was suitably alarmed by the red marks on my body. She even asked me if I wanted to pull the plug on this masquerade, but I refused—doing so would not only risk exposing my identity when we explained but possibly damage the Spinning Wheel’s ongoing relationship with the Breeding Barn. (What I didn’t tell Mary was that I was barely holding onto my nerve. I thought that, if I gave in this time, I’d never again have the will to take even the milder risks that I enjoyed so much. I guess I really WAS an addict!)

Mary did give me some ibuprofen and dab topical pain killers on the various red areas of my body before taking me to the nearest pee grate, where she brusquely administered the douche and enema that pony girls got to flush them between customers.

After she strung me back up in the x-shaped chains, I asked her to leave the conversion collar off so that, in the extreme case, I could at least articulate a call for help. She agreed, but then smirked and remarked,

“Don’t worry; your next two ‘Johns’ should be a lot more fun. I saw the signup record, and both of these people have had you before. No, I’m not going to tell you—remember, you’re the one who wanted to be a passive animal here, with no choice about sex, so just act docile. But I think you’ll enjoy yourself.”

With that enigmatic comment, she gave me a gentle hug and left the room, leaving me wondering who was about to use my body.

I soon found out. Again, the door opened and closed. This time a WOMAN’s voice said “I loved seeing that slutty display you put on in the restaurant. Even before the announcer named you, I recognized that red-headed pony as being one of my favorite playmates. Moira gave me a bonus for my birthday, so I decided to spend part of it on renting Ginger, also known as Lois Spalding. Is that OK with you?”

By this time, a grinning Sylvia Marcus, the head trainer at the Tribade Training Ranch, had walked under my right arm so she could see my face. Busted! The black haired, busty woman knew exactly who I was, so I might as well admit it and hope things didn’t get worse.

“Of course it’s OK, mistress; I live to serve you,” I replied in my meek little pony girl voice. And then I jumped uncontrollably when I felt another hand deep inside my butt cleft. Moira O’Neill, owner of the Tribade and Sylvia’s “significant other,” had come around my left side. Another full-sized and well-built woman, she seemed equally pleased to see me, although I couldn’t be sure. Crap! Did everyone I ever met decide to eat at the Breeding Barn tonight?

“Well, for the next hour, we own your butt, but I don’t see why we can’t all have a little fun. You made a pretty sexy femme that weekend you spent along with Mary—I mean Maud the old mare—at our ranch.” Sylvia could see the worry in my face. Unlike our previous meeting, when Mary and I had serviced them to fulfil a lost bet, this time they had no reason to keep my secret. “Oh, don’t worry, sweetie; I’m not going to ‘out’ you as a closet submissive. If it’s one thing an LGBTQ person learns, it’s to respect another person’s privacy unless, of course, that person is hypocritical about her own preferences. So long as you don’t campaign to eliminate slavery or sex out of wedlock, what you do with your body is your business, not ours. But seriously—you were such a fine little filly that weekend that we felt sure you’d enjoy playing with us again, right?”

I nodded my head, because what they offered was a real relief after Jack. “Yes, mistress. Before that weekend with you, I had very little experience like that. I love having a strong guy bang me, but I think you awakened an interest in being bi. I’d say that even if I weren’t tied up at your mercy.”

“Too bad we don’t have Mary here as well—let’s get the show on the road, or rather your tongue on my clit.” Giggled Sylvia.

Which is what happened for most of the next hour. I spent more than half of that time tonguing them, first on my knees and then, with me bent over the mounting bench, licking whichever woman had her thighs around my head while the other one vigorously shafted me with a strap-on up my cunt.

They were very kind, giving me frequent sips of water as well as breaks when we simply talked. Sylvia even licked ME for a few minutes, a very strange and welcome reversal for a pony girl pseudo-slave rented out to serve others. I can’t say that I climaxed, but I certainly got a lot of pleasure. After the stress I experienced with Jack, this was almost a vacation in bondage.

Moira and Sylvia talked to me about my submissive urges, but if you’ve read these tales you know that I can’t really explain those urges myself. Sylvia in particular argued that my desire to be a subservient sex partner who was “forced” to pleasure dominants was entirely compatible with being a femme in some forms of lesbian relationships. Not all lesbian couples had such a power dynamic, any more than all heterosexual relations were about dominance and submission, but I had to admit that I had enjoyed most of our intimacy both that evening and when we spent a weekend paying off a bet to them. Each of them hugged me after extorting a promise that we would get together for another playdate. And then they departed.

All in all, I was much calmer and even happy when Mary came to clean me up, flush me out, and prepare me for my final hour of pony pandering to the prosperous. She again refused to tell me who my next customer would be but left me with a smile and a wink.

I can’t say that I recognized the guy’s voice instantly, but I couldn’t help grinning when I saw Richard Jameson smiling at me while gently running his hands over my spread-eagled form. He, too, had recognized me in the floor show, although he seemed to know me only as the pony girl who had trained at his ranch rather than the wealthy ranch owner who was his peer.

“I have to say that your performance on stage tonight was fantastic; it reminded me of the time I got to play with you on my ranch, so I signed up for a session with you this evening. I don’t want to hurt you, though—are you too tired tonight?”

Too tired to have sex with a guy who went out of his way to ensure that even a pony slut enjoyed herself? Hell no! “No, Master,” I smiled, again careful to use my most subservient little voice. “I would really enjoy serving you tonight.”

His answering smile told me that, had I told him no, he would actually have left the slave cunt, whom he had undoubtedly rented at a huge price, unused! This guy was too good to be real. As soon as he released my chains, I interlocked my fingers behind my neck in the Present position, and in the same meek voice asked what I might do for his pleasure.

“As I recall, pony, you are a pretty good cocksucker—so why don’t you get to work on mine?” Richard replied. As soon as he sat down with pants undone, I was kneeling between those muscular thighs, fondling and tonguing him with as much enthusiasm (and more pleasure) than I had displayed sucking off my @#$%& ex-husband. Of course, this time my mouth was stretched farther than it had been with Jack both because Richard was of a higher caliber and because I had an uncontrollable grin on my face.

He called me on that. “The last time you served me,” he observed, “The only criticism I could make of your technique was that you didn’t smile and stare into my eyes. An experienced fellatrix should always try to convince the guy that she’s having the time of his life swallowing him, but you were too shy that time. I can’t see your eyes very well through that visor, but your smile is much more convincing—if I didn’t know better, I’d think you really enjoyed giving me a hummer.”

Guilty as charged, your worship! I slipped off his shaft just long enough to repeat the same slave mantra I had used earlier, only this time it was heartfelt, “I live to serve you, Master.” Then I went back to work trying to accommodate every inch of his tasty prick. THIS was what I had been hoping to experience tonight—being subservient to a handsome, firm man who put me in my place (at his feet) while he used my body thoroughly, completely in charge without being abusive. Almost as much of a rush as Stud and Arnold DP-ing me, only now I had the leisure to really enjoy myself. The whipping Jack gave me had reminded me—if I needed any reminder—of the horrors of real slavery. In the back of my mind, though, was a fairy tale where I was the personal slave and bed warmer of Richard Jameson. For life. Yeah, get real, Lois!

The happiness continued even when he stopped me short of completion and tied me over the mounting bench for the third time that evening. Back when he had played with me in a stall at his ranch, Richard had treated me almost as well as (I assumed) he would have made love to a free woman, taking his time to bring the pony girl to a full boil and then being careful to ensure that the redhaired slave got both pleasure and several satisfying orgasms out of her usage. In this, he had pleasured slave Ginger far better than many guys—including Jack—would have done with Lois Spalding, wealthy free woman.

Now, at the Breeding Barn, Richard treated me to another virtuoso performance of master-gives-pony-girl-mind-blowing sex. Yes, he spanked me, pounded my cunt, and (after removing my plug and some careful stretching) reamed my ass, but he did it all more like a dominant lover than a wealthy man who had rented some strange pony pussy for an hour. And when he finally finished, he brought me down carefully—back rub, lots of water, wiping my dripping crotch clean, and holding me on his lap to cuddle. He was gentle even when restoring my butt plug and chaining me back the way he had found me.

With a final love tap to my butt, my last “John” of the evening quietly said, “I was right, Ginger—you’re fantastic as a pleasure slave; I hope to get more use from you in future.” Then I heard the door close behind him.

*****

(Mary Jacobs’ perspective)

At 10:30 on a Friday night, I was waiting outside the door to room 2D in the Breeding Barn’s Petting Zoo, while Hailie was outside 3B. Each of us was waiting to recover a pony prostitute provided by the Spinning Wheel on contract to the Barn, although both of us were worried about the treatment of our boss, Lois Spalding, when she insisted on pretending to be Pony Girl Ginger. Gives new meaning to that TV series about “Undercover Boss;” in this case, the boss was underneath someone while being “covered” as a pony. As for Stud the pony stallion, he had literally shot his wad for the evening, so we’d already cared for him and hitched him inside the trailer.

I knew Richard Jameson by sight, and I knew that Lois had enjoyed her previous “field trip” pretending to be a trainee pony at Richard’s ranch, so I was much less worried about how he would treat her tonight than I had been when I found out her ex-husband had beaten and ravished her. I was still surprised, though, when Richard walked straight up to me and very politely began to interrogate me.

“You’re Mary Jacobs, right?” He asked, and I nodded. “I don’t need to tell you what a great reputation you have as a pony trainer, but I do need to talk to you for a minute before you go get Lois.”

“Lois?” I must have misheard him, and pretended to play dumb, but he wasn’t buying my act. “You’re too smart a woman not to know what’s going on, Mary. Trust me, I have no desire to embarrass your boss, but I AM concerned about her. Ginger’s pretty good at pony racing, and if she had started at a younger age I’m sure you’ll agree that she could have been a champion trotter. She’s got the legs, stamina, and coordination for it. Under other circumstances, I’d be offering to help train her in return for a share of the winnings. Not to mention that she has the potential to be a Sandy Foot pleasure slave.”

He paused, then plunged on. “Trouble is, I know Ginger’s true identity. I’ll admit that she fooled me when you sent her to my ranch for training a few months ago. But when I went through my hand receipts and invoices two weeks later, I found her SIN (Slave Identification Number), 875-33-9443. I resisted the urge to stare at her Pinks [slave photos] but read through the entire file until I found her real name at the bottom.”

No sense trying to fool this guy, I thought; time for damage control. Out loud I acknowledged the name on the tip of his tongue: “Lois Spalding.”

He seemed relieved that I admitted the truth. “Glad you’re being sensible. Look, I know you’re in a hurry to go take care of her, so I’ll be brief. First, as I said, I have no intention of embarrassing her—nobody is going to hear about this from me, and I’ll try to put a damper on any rumors I hear. But I AM concerned that such a prominent person is risking her reputation and perhaps even actual enslavement. Heck, she’s even got her ranch brand on her bottom! Why is she doing this?”

I shook my head, sighing. “I don’t know the entire story. I’m sure you know that some women enjoy role-playing submission and slavery with their husbands or lovers, but she’s gone way beyond that. She’s a smart woman and a fantastic businesswoman, but she’s also very lonely. She had an unsuccessful marriage—ironically, her ex-husband rented her tonight because Ginger reminded him of Lois! Most of the time, Lois seems happy and efficient, but very occasionally she gets the urge to play this game. It started out with just wanting to get laid by a slave stallion, but now, as you can see, she needs a major fix of domination and submission to satisfy her.”

I needed to end this conversation quickly. “I don’t feel right talking to you about this—I’ve only answered your question because you know her identity already, but she’ll really be angry when she finds out. I hope you can respect her privacy.”

Richard nodded. “As I said before, I’m not going to tell anyone or blackmail her or anything like that. I pretended that I thought she was an actual pony girl, so she doesn’t know that I’ve identified her. I WISH she would confess to me so we can work something out, but I imagine it’s very difficult for her to admit. I won’t tell her I know the truth unless I think she’s in real danger. In the meantime, can you at least help me to meet Lois socially, keeping her clothes on, of course?”

I smiled a little. “I’ve been urging her to do that ever since she came back from your ranch mooning about what a great lover you were!” He couldn’t help but smile at the compliment. “If nothing else, she’s told me she wants to send all of our new ponies to get your quote superb unquote training, so I’ll try to maneuver her to come into contact with you personally. Here’s my card, if you need to contact me—but remember that I spend a lot of time with her within earshot.”

“I appreciate your trust and your help.” Richard nodded. “I’m sure we’ll talk more, but right now you need to get Ginger home. I did my best for aftercare, but she’s tired.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jameson.”

“Please, Mary. I hope we’re going to be cooperating for her own happiness, so you can at least call me Richard.” He walked away, and I turned to take care of my boss and friend. Given that her strange secret had leaked, as was inevitable because of the risks she took, it seemed as if Moira, Sylvia, and Richard were unlikely to exploit her.

*****

(Lois Spalding’s perspective)

I was very tired. I mean, I’d had at least four cocks (two of them supersized) and two strap-ons inside me over the past four or five hours. Not to mention having my ex-husband whip my most vulnerable parts. When the truck finally pulled over to release me from my bonds and let me dress again as a free woman, I said almost nothing until I was stretched out in the back of the king cab while Hailie, with Mary riding shotgun, drove us back to the ranch through a moonless night. The lights of inhabited areas became farther and farther apart as we roared down the highway towards home.

Finally, I roused myself to speak to them. “I really want to thank you guys for taking care of me tonight. I know this kind of thing is nerve-wracking for you, and I appreciate the care you give me. And I also loved that Hailie teased and fondled me just as if I were any other pony girl waiting to be bred.” I paused and then grinned. “Of course, I didn’t appreciate it much when you slandered me to those handlers at the Breeding Barn.”

Hailie, eyes on the road, shook her head in the negative. “I would never slander you, ma’am.”

I walked right into the trap. “Then what do you call describing me as ‘a total slut who was born to the collar?’”

She smirked, then replied. “That was me telling the absolute truth, which is always a defense against any accusation of slander.” Mary broke out laughing, looking back at me with a twinkle in her eye.

It WAS pretty funny, but I tried to recover, saying in what I hoped was a friendly voice, “Bitch.”

Mary, still looking at me, shook her head. “You’ve still got it wrong, Lois. I think we’ve established that, when it comes to playing pony, you’re OUR bitch! Not to mention Richard Jameson’s.” They both guffawed again.

“You got me, ‘Mistress.’” I acknowledged with hooked fingers to indicate quotation marks around the title of respect. Then I fell silent planning just how to shred Jack verbally if he dared call me up and suggest that his ex-wife would ever play pony girl at the Breeding Barn . . . Asshole. It was much more fun to contemplate submitting to Richard Jameson again—I’d happily be HIS bitch any time!

*****

(Stud’s perspective)

It must be after midnight when the trailer finally comes to a halt, presumably having returned to the ranch. I can’t see out of the trailer, of course, but the sound of three truck doors slamming within seconds of each other indicates that there were three riders in the pickup that had towed me home.

When I’m finally backed out of that trailer, I feel momentarily blinded by the bright street-light style lamps that illuminate the stable yard. But as I look around, there are only three free people—the owner, the stable boss, and Mistress Hailie—and one other pony—Clarabelle—in sight. I’m squinting hard to focus on the ice princess, Mizz Stalling. She looks far more tired than I have ever seen her, definitely more exhausted than the others. And the open collar of her polo shirt, a shirt that bears the Spinning Wheel logo, shows a suspicious red oval half-way up the side of her neck. Is that really the hickey I had planted on Ginger?

YESSS!!! I don’t know why she did it, but Mizz Stalling had pretended to be a slave tonight. I wasn’t imagining things; I really DID get to fuck the owner’s brains out and THEN stretch her tight little ass for her. No wonder she’s smiling.

Sherlock Holmes was right: “Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.” In this case, Mizz Spalding and Ginger the pony girl are the same person. Sigh. I may be the slave Sherlock Holmes, but I need someone to talk to, so I can tell that person “Elementary, my dear Watson.” It just doesn’t sound the same when you whinny.

(To be continued)
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Re: Breeding the Pony Girl, Pt. 09

Post by jeepster »

Great chapter! Figured someone had to see through her disguise and identify her. Although I thought Stud was the front runner with the hickey marking her!
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Re: Breeding the Pony Girl, Pt. 09

Post by Mr. Smith »

This story becomes more interesting as the number of individuals who figure out that Ginger is really Lois grows increasing the opportunity for an enslavement. Anyone who wants to figure out who Ginger is only has to get her SIN and look her up. In every chapter Lois becomes more and more the Ginger slave persona as her slave mind develops pulling her back into role playing Ginger. In the long run which personality wins out? Will she prefer the life of Ginger over Lois? Can she find balance? There are so many places that Carl can take this story with detours along the way.

I am still surprised that nobody has picked up on the name of the blonde pony whisperer at the Breeding Barn.
:shock:
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Re: Breeding the Pony Girl, Pt. 09

Post by jeepster »

Can't wait to see what devious plans Mary and Richard dream up for Lois!
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Re: Breeding the Pony Girl, Pt. 09

Post by Hooked6 »

The idea of a Slave Petting Zoo as mentioned in this chapter reminded me of these photos of an alternative version of a slave petting zoo that might be of interest to some of you.













I imagine a story where a sorority has pledges act as slaves being exhibited in a petting zoo to raise money for charity in front of their peers and other college students only to have things take a turn for the worse as a government slave official stops by to the event and confiscates the slaves due to their lack of paper work and documentation. The coeds get get inspected then are auctioned off before anyone realizes that the auction wasn't for charity but for real. Anyway, just thought these images might be fun. Great work, Carl.

Hooked6
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Re: Breeding the Pony Girl, Pt. 09

Post by Carl Bradford »

Thanks to Hooked6 for these photos, which suggest that reality includes some women whose submissive urges are almost in the same class as Lois. So maybe my premise isn't quite as bats__t crazy as I thought.
I agree that a story about sorority pledges ending up enslaved would be fun. In addition, Mr. Smith has been advocating the idea that submissive women might "volunteer" to be in the Breeding Barn's noontime version of the Petting Zoo to service both their lovers and strangers--perhaps even a MILF Monday group. I hope that he or I will eventually produce such a story.
At the moment, however, I'm decisively engaged writing about Lois; Joe has kindly given me several excellent suggestions that will appear in parts 10 and 11.
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Re: Breeding the Pony Girl, Pt. 09

Post by Mr. Smith »

I really enjoyed the pictures. Where do peiople find these? Joe had a scenario in one of his stories where sorority pledges did a month of training at the Big D and then performed in an Any Chance Auction expecting to be freed afterwards. The problem was that many of their block routines were too skanky for admission into the sorority and two thirds were sold. Or was it their fathers that held the power of attorney who decieded they were too slutty to take home. Either way their performances demonstrated their subconcious calling for the collar and their wishes were granted.

What kind of animals would you have in a sorority petting zoo? Ponies, cats and dogs. What else? I guess the large brasted pledge could be a cow.
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Re: Breeding the Pony Girl, Pt. 09

Post by jeepster »

Ok Carl waiting with bated breath to see what you and Joe came up with for Lois!
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