Breeding the Pony Girl, Pt. 05

[Carl Bradford]

Breeding the Pony Girl, Pt. 05

(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. Thanks to Joe Doe, who suggested the plot for this episode.)

(Lois Spalding’s viewpoint)

“Whoa, Ginger.”

It was a muggy Texas evening and I had sweated quite a lot while pulling the buggy up the hill, so I was glad to take a break, panting hard. Of course, when the driver told me to stop, she had also tugged backwards on two sets of reins. One set was attached to the bit in my mouth, pulling my lips back to form the famous “slave grin.” More uncomfortable were the “tit reins,” connected to the shiny rings that adorned my nipples. Even though those reins ran through a second set of rings under my arms and also had springs on them to absorb most of the tension of a pull, tugging on them gave me both a brief shot of pain and a zing! of erotic stimulation. At least, with those reins installed, pony girls weren’t expected to wear bells on their nipples.

Ordinarily, I should have been on the other end of those reins, since I owned the Spinning Wheel Pony Ranch. This time, as on several recent Saturday evenings, I was acting as a pony girl being driven by one of my own employees, Hailie Wilson. If you haven’t read the previous portions of my strange little story, I guess a word of explanation is in order.

About five months prior to that evening, I had become fascinated—OK, obsessed—with the fantasy of pretending to be one of my own pony girl slaves so that I could get thoroughly shafted by my muscular, champion pony boy stallion, Stud. Any heterosexual woman who saw that guy’s oversized cock and balls, not to mention the magnificent muscles of his ass as they flexed to impale a pony girl, would at least imagine being on the receiving end of Stud’s thrusts. In the high-testosterone environment of a pony ranch, however, I had to conceal my obsession from my employees—the younger guys would have lost whatever limited respect they had for the female owner if they saw her acting like a slave pony, aka slut. So, early one Sunday morning my middle-aged stable manager, Mary Jacobs, had kitted me out as a pony girl—high heeled boots ending in small horseshoes, arm binder holding my forearms parallel to each other behind my back, tight bustier that made my breasts look huge but left my groin completely exposed, elaborate headdress to hold my long auburn hair up like a pony mane, and an uncomfortably-large butt plug that anchored my matching horse tail (ouch). That time I was also wearing one of the electronic collars that translated any speech into horsey sounds. I had become not only a slave but a helpless, mute animal—to be blunt about it, a filly or bitch. After initial trepidation, however, I found I absolutely loved that role.

We got away with the masquerade the first time, and my magnificent stallion, serving an 8-year enslavement for causing an injury accident while DWI, thoroughly stretched both of my passages. (Damn, that boy knew how to fuck!) If I wanted to risk further such games, however, I knew I should get my ass branded so it blended in with the rest of my livestock. That was a daunting hurdle, so when Mary, with the best of intentions, urged me to get it done discreetly at the Longhorn Slave Market, I insisted that she put some skin in the game and join me. To conceal our identities, Mary’s husband (and my head cook), Bill kennelled us as slaves for an overnight stay at the Longhorn. (The managers knew our identities, and the two guys who processed us could easily have discovered the same by looking at the National Slave Registry, but no one said our names or legal status out loud. That day, the slave wranglers at the market checked off several items on my submissive wish list, casually face-fucking and gang-banging both of us. The downside of that thrilling usage was not only getting my butt burned but also, thanks to Bill’s big mouth, feeling my nipples pierced and having the Longhorn videotape the entire embarrassing process—all at my expense! Afterwards, I apologized profusely for involving Mary in such a painful experience; she forgave me and (when Bill wasn’t around) admitted that she also got a thrill out of having muscular young men use her like a sex toy. And she said nothing about the fact that one of the wranglers had ordered us into a 69 position, lapping each other.

The kennelling experience confirmed my previous suspicions that I really enjoyed pretending to be a slave, at least for short periods of time. Even when I wasn’t actually getting screwed, I got off on the sensation of helpless subordination, especially to strong men, and the fear that my identity—like my groin—would be exposed. I didn’t even dare contemplate the risk of truly being enslaved, although I’m sure that risk contributed subconsciously to my excitement.

I think Mary recognized (and perhaps identified) with my submissive tendencies, so she had suggested spending Saturday evenings, when most of my staff were out drinking, with me practicing as a “real” pony girl on the back trails of the ranch. Unwilling to admit my submissive instincts, I at first demurred, asking why I would suffer the discomfort and risk if I wasn’t even getting banged out of the deal.

The look I got from Mary told me she wasn’t buying my act, but to assuage my pride she gave me a number of more believable reasons to try it out—I needed to walk and think like a pony if I were ever to merge with my herd for sexual hijinks; it would help me as a pony trainer to empathize with my sluts; it was good exercise that would work off the stress of my job; and in the process I would get the beginnings of a tan, especially on my legs and rear cheeks. (Up until then, my untanned white skin, so different from that of every working pony on the ranch, made me stand out in ways that might lead people to ask questions. Even then, I had to use self-tanning cream to reduce the white space where my collar went.) So I agreed to buggy harness training as the logical next step in my still unarticulated dream of playing pony.

Like many other ponies, I now wore a blinder headdress. This not only discouraged me from looking around (which again would attract undue attention because it showed lack of discipline) but also broke up my facial outline—unless someone looked directly at my face from the front, he or she was unlikely to recognize that Pony Girl Ginger bore a remarkable resemblance to the “ice princess” who owned the ranch.

*****

We made two additions to indulge my habit. First, stall B-18, at the end of a long row of pony accommodations, was specially modified. We brought in an outside carpenter one weekend to construct a concealed passage leading from the inside of the stall to the ladies’ room next door, so if necessary Ginger could enter and leave without having someone unlock her stall. (Don’t tell Mary, but before this I got a little thrill when, while in pony girl mode, I had been locked up in a stall; the passage actually reduced the fun of indulging in what amounted to self-bondage.)

Even with this trick, however, another person had to help dress me as a pony girl and later to free me from the arm binder. This issue, plus the fact that the owner and her stable boss couldn’t both disappear at the same time (nor should “Ginger” always be seen only in Mary’s company), meant that we needed another member of the staff whom we could trust with my shameful secret. We settled on Hailie, who had guided Stud to mount the redheaded pony that Sunday morning.

I was both embarrassed and hesitant to tell Hailie about Ginger’s real identity, but we discovered that she already knew it. When I gingerly (pun intended) raised the subject, she giggled quietly as a friendly smile drifted across her face. Then she replied,
“I wondered what you were up to, ma’am. It took me a few days to figure out, because I knew we didn’t have a pony with pale skin and auburn hair. After that, I decided you wouldn’t appreciate my asking any questions. None of my business why you did that, but if you’ll forgive me for being crude I was impressed that you could handle that horse cock inside you. Can’t say I blame you for hushing things up, anyway. The younger guys around this place already say disrespectful things about women when you can’t hear them, and just imagine what they would think if they found out you were dressing up as a pony. You don’t pay me to gossip, just to take care of the inventory and keep my mouth shut—let’s leave it at that, OK?” Amazing what you learn about your employees when you talk to them—she got a raise, plus overtime for working Saturday evenings.

Which is how she and I ended up on top of that hill one Saturday. I felt the buggy’s weight shift as she dismounted, then Hailie appeared between my blinders, standing at my head, and inserted the straw of a water bottle into my mouth. As I sucked thirstily (let’s face it, I love sucking!), she gently massaged my breast with her other hand, then stopped to apologize when she realized that she had been groping her wealthy boss like any other pony on the place.

“Sorry, Ma’am,” she mumbled, looking around to see if anyone was in sight; “It’s just habit to stroke pony girl boobs like that when they do well.”

I wasn’t wearing the electronic collar we sometimes installed to convert human speech into horsey noises. Here was a chance for me to practice the meek little voice I had developed so that Ginger wouldn’t sound like the assertive, kick-ass ranch owner. “I know, ‘Mistress,’” I replied, trying to articulate very carefully around the bit in my mouth. “Your hand felt nice, though, and stroking me like that maintained my cover if anyone saw us.” In fact, getting felt up like that added to the thrill I got as a pony girl. By now, I’m sure that Hailie was under no illusions about my twisted mind, but we both maintained the fiction that this game was intended to give me exercise and help me empathize as a pony trainer, not bring my wet dreams to life. She never commented even when, on several occasions, I came back to the stables with moisture between my legs.

*****

The following Thursday, though, the excrement impacted on the ventilator. I was supervising wind sprints for our new fillies when my phone buzzed; it was Mary.

“Boss, we’ve got a slight problem,” she began, then hesitated as if she was trying to think how to say something in case someone else was listening. “One of the new inspectors from the state Ag Department is here to check our inventory.”

(The Livestock and Slave Division of the Texas Department of Agriculture oversees all aspects of slavery in the state. After lurid news stories of extreme cruelty to humans in collars as well as kidnapping free women into slavery, the governor had directed the division to begin random inspections of businesses that owned slaves to ensure that none of those slaves were abused or kidnapped. Of course, “abused” was a relative term in slave-friendly Texas—since slaves had no personal rights, they frequently experienced physical punishment and sexual exploitation. Gang-bangs, croppings, and brandings were all considered “normal.” Only extreme instances of cruelty and clear-cut cases of kidnapping were likely to be reported, let alone indicted.)

“What’s the problem, then?” I asked, genuinely puzzled. Unlike some fly-by-night outfits, I had insisted that my ranch conduct periodic reviews of the treatment and records of every pony on the spread. I’m not saying my slaves were happy but compared to other places they had no reason to bitch.

“Weeel,” she said, stretching the word out, “He wants to interview Ginger.” Crap. Back when Mary and I first began my masquerade, we had added Ginger to the ranch computer records. We used the Slave Identification Number (SIN) tattooed inside my lower lip when I, like most young women, had been slave graded soon after my 18th birthday. That way, we thought, anyone who checked Ginger would be satisfied that she was part of the inventory. Our idea had been to discourage curious employees like Hailie, only now that file was coming back to bite ME in the ass.

I had no choice. “Send Hailie over to B-18 to get Ginger ready; Tell Hailie to call you as soon as she’s finished.”

We set a world record for transforming me. By the time the inspector arrived 20 minutes later, I was in complete pony girl mode, standing in “Present” mode (feet apart, facing the stall door, hands bound parallel to each other behind my back). Fortunately, I kept my body completely hairless below the eyebrows. I also felt very nervous; it was one thing to play under Haile’s protection, but now I had to do a convincing imitation of a real pony girl slave in front of a state official who was looking for fraud and abuse.

The guy was in his late 40s, slightly overweight with greying hair. He introduced himself, in a strong Texas accent, as “Sam Houston Sterling,” and said he needed to talk to me alone so that I would feel free to speak truthfully. At his request, Haile brought him a straight-backed wooden chair and removed my bit, speech conversion collar, and arm binder. As soon as my arms went loose, I shifted to full Present position, with my fingers interlocked behind my head as I stood fully exposed in front of this strange male. Only my blinders helped conceal my identity as I tried very hard not to look him in the eye, keeping my head bent slightly downwards as a good slave should.

When the stall door closed behind Haile, Sterling walked slowly around my rigid and exposed body, looking intently at my exposed breasts and nipples, clean-shaven crotch, and rear end. I couldn’t really see the last part, but he seemed to be examining me all over as if he were looking for whip marks or other injuries. At his request, I used one hand to turn down my lower lip so he could compare my SIN, which was 875-33-9443, to the printout in his hand, a printout I recognized as being “Ginger’s” entry in the ranch records. Once he had done so, he told me to retract my lip, and I immediately interlaced my hand back behind my head. Standing like that, exposed in front of a fully-dressed stranger, reinforced the sense of vulnerability that actual slaves experience on a daily basis. Fun but scary.

Having verified my SIN, for the next few minutes he addressed me as 9443, the last 4 digits often being used to designate slaves in a large organization. At first, his questions were very predictable—how long had I been a slave, what had I been fed over the past 24 hours, how often was I given water while exercising, was I left outside in inclement weather, had I ever been whipped as a pony (I could say once, courtesy of Mary), and so on. I answered all this in my most submissive, hesitant voice, trying to sound like a nervous slave without actually lying to him.

When he asked me what was the greatest pain I had ever experienced since being collared, I replied, quite truthfully, that it was when I was branded. That seemed to remind him of the brand, even though he must have seen it when he walked around me.

Abruptly, he ordered me to “Display,” one of the most demeaning postures for a slave. I did my best to comply, turning away from him, spreading my legs even farther apart, and bending over as deeply as I could, almost tucking my head between my knees. This position made my butt the highest portion of my body, spread wide so he could see both my “slave cunt” and my starfish, which at the moment was stretched to accommodate the standard ponytail butt plug.

I almost broke position when, for the first time, Master Sam touched me. His fingers spent a long, careful time lovingly tracing the deep impression of a spinning wheel on my left ass cheek. He pronounced it a good, clean brand, one that any pony should be proud of. Then, instead of removing his hand he let it slide over to my butt crack, where he began to play with my ponytail. He would pull the plug out just far enough that its widest circumference stretched my sphincter uncomfortably, then allow the lubricated shaft to slide back in with a small “pop.” He did this over and over, setting off all my nerve endings. Although he was not touching any part of my skin directly, he gave me the same thrill as if he were sodomizing me.

“You’ve got a nice, tight butthole there, 9443. Other than your tail plug, are you an anal virgin?”

I flushed, but this question, at least, I could answer with complete honesty. “No, Master.”

“How ‘bout you just call me ‘Sir’ for now, sweetheart,” he replied, which I of course acknowledged, wondering why he had suspended the usual rules.

Then he was back on the subject of my colon, where he was still toying with the plug. “When was the last time you were taken back there?”

“About . . . five months ago, sir. It was time for my breeding on the mounting frame, and the stallion reamed me back there, as well.”

“Did he hurt you?” Came the instant question. I knew he was looking for evidence of abuse, but he seemed strangely intrigued about this incident.

“No sir,” I replied. Feeling this abrupt answer might sound disrespectful, something made me add, “It felt good, sir.”

He chuckled. “My, what a dirty little whore you are. So, you don’t mind being corn-holed?”

Oh, great, I thought; in order to maintain my cover I’m probably going to have to give my asshole to THIS asshole. Well, I was the one who wanted to play pony girl, so no sense bitching now. Instead, I kept to the only safe answer for a slave. “Whatever pleases you, sir.”

“We’ll see.” And then, without removing his hand from my tail plug, he suddenly thrust two fingers of his other hand straight between my exposed labia. I didn’t need the “squeaking” sound we both heard to know he would find me wet down there. Once again, the reality of playing slave was making my body betray me. (Or, since Sterling clearly intended to test-drive this pony girl, one could argue my body was providing necessary lubrication.)

He continued to play with both of my lower openings for the next several minutes, to the point where I could feel my nipples and clit standing fully erect while my breathing accelerated. I guess it was natural that an Ag Department inspector would know his way around a woman’s body; by reputation, Ag officials got more blowjobs and sexual freebies from slaves than did anyone else in state government (and given our state government, that’s really saying something!) Meanwhile, I struggled to maintain my balance in the uncomfortable Display stance. (Imagine YOU were bent double with your legs apart, head down and your weight balanced on your toes while some stranger toyed with you down there.)

Abruptly, Mister/Master Sterling ceased fondling me, ordering me to return to “Present” position and then to sit down on his straight-backed chair. I had to move very carefully so I didn’t disembowel myself when I sat on my butt plug. Then he stood in front of me, unzipped his slacks, and fished out a full-sized set of junk. His inspection of Pony Girl Ginger had intrigued him so much that his third leg was close to fully erect. Pretending he had to test my training, the Inspector-currently-flashing-a-pony-girl asked me to repeat the slave yoga mantra or slave hawking that a slut should announce when confronted with a master’s ramrod.

That was an easy one: “Please, may I suck your monster dick, Master.” (When he invoked slave yoga, I assumed that we were back to Master instead of Sir.)

He pretended that I had made this request of my own free will: “Well, since you asked so nicely, yes, you may suck my dick.”

I think I’ve written before that my mind was divided sort of 90 percent/10 percent. Ninety percent of the time in 90 percent of my brain cells (corresponding roughly to my ego), I was a businesswoman trying to make my ranch succeed. I wouldn’t call myself a “radical feminist,” but I resented the reality that women had to work harder to overcome male stereotypes and be taken seriously in the business world. That was especially true in my part of that world, which made a profit out of enslaving, demeaning, and sexually exploiting (primarily female) human beings. What Sterling wanted was well within the perks that any free adult, of either gender, could demand of a slave; in fact, he could have just told me to “suck dick, pony slut.” As a taxpayer, though, it irked me that this guy was abusing his office, getting his jollies by exploiting a female slave he was supposed to protect—AND he was doing it during business hours, “on the clock while he gets his rocks off” if you will. It also bugged me that he could impose himself on me like this when he knew neither the pony girl nor the ranch management would dare call him on it.

But the other 10 percent of my mind was my libido in the form of a not-so-closeted submissive slut. Pony Girl Ginger was thinking, in effect, “Here’s a guy who is using not only the master-slave dynamic but also the authority of the government, thereby doubling his domination over me. That’s a thrill right there, quite apart from the fact that my body is dressed up as a pony for his pleasure. That cock isn’t as big as Stud’s, but how many cocks are? At least it’s clean and looks tasty. What’s the big deal, Ego? You wanted to play slave slut and this guy is giving you another chance to do just that. Dive in.”

So I did.

One hand was soon firmly wrapped around the base of his shaft, the other softly manipulating his balls inside that scrotum. I ran my tongue lovingly around the circumcision ridge on his mushroom-shaped little head, then began rocking MY head back and forth, swallowing and then retreating from the first 2 or 3 inches of his phallus. Pretty soon, I told myself, I’m going to have to try taking the whole thing down my throat, but I don’t want to give him too much sensation all at once, or his penis popsicle will pop off before I’ve had much fun playing with it.

I was surprised when he reached down, firmly prised my hands off him, and stepped back. “Damn—you really ARE a dirty little slut, aren’t you, 9443? Some other time we’ll have to probe your oral skills more deeply, but for now, let’s continue checking your skill training. Stand up and walk around to the back of the chair.”

I felt as if he had suddenly thrown my oral engine into neutral at 8,000 LPMs (Licks Per Minute), but the way he was talking suggested that he might give me another chance to test out his joystick. Anyway, my role in this little drama was to obey the big, bad Master, so I scrambled to my feet and hurried to stand behind the back of the chair, once again taking up the Present stance.

He turned and grabbed the wool blanket lying on the cot that decorated B-18 as if Ginger actually lived there 24/7. Folding the blanket into several thicknesses, Sterling draped it over the back of the chair, then spanked my butt sharply, sending a clear message that I was to bend over, head low and butt high. His feet pressed on the insides of my booted ankles, casually spreading my legs even farther. Hummm, my 10 percent brain purred—looks like he’s about to get down to business. On ME. About damn time!

His next moves surprised me, but after a few seconds my libido revved back up in response. Reaching into his briefcase, he extracted several lengths of soft rope which he used to tie my ankles to the back legs of the chair. I felt him press my tail plug even farther into my back passage, then use it as a handle to push and pull me around on the chair, maneuvering my buttocks until they were displayed precisely as he wished. Sterling followed this up with a pair of slave cuffs. After he had installed one end snugly around my left wrist, he wrapped the middle chain around the horizontal bar between the front legs of the chair and then enclosed my right wrist in the other cuff. These cuffs were specially designed for quick release, but no one who was wearing a pair could extricate himself or herself. Now I was truly a helpless slave object, bound to the chair until the inspector or some other free citizen decided to release me. There were no bones about it, although I hoped he got a boner looking at me. All I could do was stand there and pray that he would get around to pounding my brains out as soon as possible.

*****

Only he didn’t.

Instead, having rendered me completely helpless, the bastard proceeded to tease me out of my horny slave mind without actually USING the attached body. Soft, teasing slapping on my rump, fondling my nipples, clit, labia, etc., finger-fucking me for just a few seconds, running his hands up and down the straining muscles of my legs, and of course a reprise of his little game of pumping my tail plug in and out—you name it, he did it. At one point he face-fucked me for a few strokes, apparently to keep himself fully erect. Damn, he was frustrating. To be honest, I’ve never been a big fan of “edging” or teasing. Looking back on this day, however, I had to admit that Sam Houston Sterling was a master at using my own body against me, dominating me more with my own sensations that with his powers as a state official or the rope and cuffs he used to secure me to the chair.

As a precaution, I had arranged a hidden microphone and video recording system so that Hailie could monitor me while I was locked up behind the closed door of that stall. Half-way through my “interview” with the “Ag Department Inspector,” I realized that the video record had been a mistake. Part of what turned me on as I squirmed and begged under his control was the intense humiliation I felt, realizing that Hailie could hear and see every embarrassing word and slap. After this, she would never again think of her boss as anything but a slutty little wannabe-slave with zero self-respect. Yet another way in which Master Sterling dominated me—you might object that he didn’t know about the electronics, but as you’ll see he didn’t miss a trick about the entire situation.

I mention the video recording because, reviewing the tape afterwards, the “edging” part of my “interview” only took about 15 minutes. At the time, though, it seemed to go on for hours. By the end of that 15 minutes, I was squirming so violently that I actually made the heavy wooden chair move a few inches. What little powers of concentration I possessed were devoted to keeping my voice as meek and submissive as I could.

Eventually, I began babbling. “Master, please, please, please . . .”

He saw his chance and took it. “So, am I your master? And does that make you my slave?”

I knew it was risky to tell him the truth, but in my need I did so anyway. “Yes, Master, I’m your slut, I’m your whore, I’m your slave. You own me. Only, please . . .”

“Please what, slave? What do you want me to do?”

“Please, Master, FUCK ME. Ram my cunt, ream my ass, use me for your pleasure, but PLEASE fuck me NOW—I can’t stand to wait any longer.”

He chuckled in a lower register than before. “If that’s what you really want, I’m here to ensure that you don’t suffer.”

He was as good as his twisted word. The next seven minutes, on the tape, were nothing but images and sounds of flesh slapping flesh. What I remember was a freight train slamming over and over into my pussy from behind. And then, as I approached a long-delayed, massive climax, he withdrew his cock and popped a large vibrating dildo in its place. Next, he practically ripped that horse tail plug out of my rear end and began working his dick between my rear cheeks. I have to hand it to him—despite his obvious excitement he actually moved slowly for about 30 or 40 seconds, stretching my back passage until he was fully installed in my bowels, his thighs pressed tightly against my buttocks. I barely registered that it felt as if he were wearing a condom, which was a good thing. But, I’ve no idea how any condom could contain the second 100-car train that invaded my rectum in the next few minutes. I skipped straight from the peak of one orgasm to a new one. I was floating on a combination of thrills and discomfort, a sense of being completely occupied and owned, when he finally pressed flush against my rump, gasping, and collapsed, his body as well as his cum being spent.

For several minutes we lay panting. Then he straightened himself up, produced a towel from his briefcase, and wiped himself off. Tucking in his shirt, he slapped my butt gently.

“You’re a pretty good fuck,” he said, almost affectionately. “In time, you’ll be a great pony girl, but meanwhile I’m going to monitor you to ensure no one takes advantage of you.” I guess he meant no one ELSE. After that ironic promise, he picked up his case and walked out of the stall, leaving me still completely helpless. For the first few minutes after his departure, that didn’t matter because I was recovering from a major physical and emotional experience. After that, I began to be irked by my enforced immobility. I had a ranch to run, damnit. Besides, I didn’t want any of my hands to find me in this vulnerable position—I’d been fucked more than enough for one day! I tried rattling the handcuffs but of course got nowhere.

At the end of ten minutes, Hailie appeared to free me, wipe me off, and help me into a shower to recover. Knowing that she had heard every word of my debasement, I couldn’t even look her in the eye, but she shushed me and petted me and generally treated me like a sick child until I put myself back together mentally. At one point, I tried to apologize for my disgraceful behavior, but her reply was prompt and comforting:

“Come on, sweetie, everybody needs to get off once in a while. You had fun, didn’t you? No need to discuss it further, then,” she said with her usual gentle smile.

I thanked her for her concern, got dressed in my ordinary (free woman) clothes, and tried to go back to work.

*****

The inspector had told Mary, on leaving, that he would forward his report to us sometime during the next week. In the meantime, I didn’t get much work done. When I wasn’t daydreaming about how he had ravished me I was worrying that he might write a report that would condemn the ranch or worse still expose me personally.

Six days after Sam Houston Sterling had so thoroughly “inspected” me, the fax machine in the ranch office rattled, whirred, and spat out a six-page report of his visit. Mary and I read each page as it came off the machine but couldn’t find anything wrong. Sterling described the ranch’s procedures for verifying enslavement obligations and ensuring the health and safety of its property as “exemplary, establishing a new standard for the safety and welfare of slaves.” The only indication of his concern about Ginger, whatever that concern had been, was a vague reference to “minor irregularities in property records, with issues resolved on the spot.”

Two hours later, I got the call I had dreaded. He thanked me for taking his call (as if I dared refuse), asked if I had seen the report, and then launched into a monologue:

“Mizz Spalding, I wanted to explain to you my interest in 875-33-9443. As I’m sure you are aware by now, that SIN belongs to a free woman, so I was concerned about the possibility that she had been abducted and illegally enslaved.” He continued to talk about “9443” without saying my name or even indicating that she and I were identical. He was pretending that the pony girl he had so thoroughly used was someone different from me. Yet, I was sure that as he talked he was staring at the lurid naked photos of me in the National Slave Registry, photos that were only a few months old so my identity was undeniable.

“That’s why I had to interview her, to make sure she hadn’t been kidnapped or used sexually against her will. I’m glad to say that her statements indicated that 9443 is acting as a slave of her own free will, including voluntarily offering sexual favors.

To my horror, I heard a tape-recording of my lust-filled voice:

“Please, Master, FUCK ME. Ram my cunt, ream my ass, use me for your pleasure, but PLEASE fuck me NOW—I can’t stand to wait any longer.”

Then the inspector continued in a flat, unemotional voice. “I have concluded, at least for the moment, that she is a free woman voluntarily acting as a pony girl, and there’s nothing illegal about that. I am, however, concerned that she might unintentionally self-identify as a slave. She’s free to do what she wishes, of course, but walking around dressed as a pony girl and especially getting the ranch brand on her buttock might easily be misinterpreted. I had to caution her to address me as “Sir,” because as I’m sure you know a free person who repeatedly identifies herself as a slave and addresses another person as a master might easily end up enslaved.”

The devious SOB. Reading between the lines, he was saying that, if I accused him of abusing his office, he could counter-claim that I had ASKED him for sex—I could be accused of offering a bribe in the form of pussy. Worse still, he might be able to have me enslaved and given to him permanently!

“Anyway,” Sterling continued, “To protect her rights I need to monitor 9443 and interview her say, every three months for the foreseeable future.”

Well, having him fuck me every three months was a lot better than being his full-time slave. Besides, I had to admit that Sam Houston Sterling really knew how to ring my chimes as a submissive. Once every three months wouldn’t by itself be enough to scratch my itch to be someone’s bitch, but it was a start.

I might as well agree graciously. “I’ll be happy to make 9443 available for these interviews; perhaps you’d like to take her out for a buggy ride sometime? I only see one tiny scheduling problem. I know that you’re supposed to conduct your inspections without warning, but because she only serves as a pony girl part-time, she might not be available at the exact time you visit.”

“If that happens,” came the prompt reply, “I’ll have to re-interview 9443 within a week of my inspection date. Otherwise, as I’m sure you understand, I would worry that 9443 had been kidnapped or raped.”

“Of course,” I agreed. I also made sure to delete the Ginger file from the ranch records!

*****

Mary and Hailie, bless their hearts, were completely supportive when I told them about Ginger’s upcoming “interviews” with the Agriculture Department. The two of them exchanged a slight smirk, as if to say “finally, the boss is going to get some on a regular basis.” Blush.

But, that next interview was still 12 weeks away. When I pointed that out to Mary, she began making suggestions to send Ginger on field trips before then. Once again, the 90 percent/ego of my mind was aghast at her ideas, and the other 10 percent/libido was dancing a slutty jig. To paraphrase the cliché about things that “will ride again someday,” I was eagerly looking forward to the day when “Ginger will be ridden again.”

(To be continued)

[jeepster]

Wow! I was hoping she got to be a real pony girl pulling a cart around the farm! Great chapter!

[lovethissite]

Carl: Thanks for the 4th of July gift, great chapter.

[jeepster]

Rereading now has got me wondering what Mary suggested! The field trips!

[dtrelsky]

I really like the inclusion of Hailie, she seems to be an understanding sort who is willing to help out with her boss' stress relief, especially now that she has gotten a raise out of it. I like the moment where she slips and starts to fondle her boob like she is a normal pony girl. It would be interesting to see a further relaxing into their respective roles during her pony girl time. It sounds like they have been at this weekly for a few months or so ( I'm not entirely sure on the pace of events after the mentioned five months), so I imagine that while Hailie is totally okay with the situation, she still has an underlying awareness that this is her boss which had so far prevented her from behaving completely naturally in her role as a trainer and giving Ginger the same experience as one of the other pony girls on the ranch during her Saturdays. Eventually she may be able to switch to treating her as just another pony like a switch is being flipped, not forgetting the importance of protecting her boss though, but maybe there could be a bonus for orgasms provided during her training time (handily tracked by the tail plug), though they would probably have to be the sort that crop up during the course of the training rather than simply forced out in the interest of easy money.
I almost forgot! Whose idea was it to use the tit reins on her? Though it mentions not being expected to wear bells with them, I would think they would be even easier to clip onto the rings. I'm not sure if she's avoided one embarassment for a greater one? All that aside, I liked their inclusion!
I wonder if during one of her weekly training sessions there might be a plumbing emergency in the ladies restroom leading to her spending the night and part of the next morning in her stall waiting for plumbers to fix things.
I'm not sure about the effect of deleting Ginger from the ranch's records though. Wasn't the main purpose of that for the employees not in the know? Since the auditor has already figured her out it seems too late to change anything there, but now if one of her employees tries to look up the redhead pony girl they would find no records which seems rather suspicious.
I like that the auditor seems to understand proper restraint. He has a regular appointment now without pushing things to where it would become much of a burden aside from the scheduling. Blackmailers who overplay their hand have a tendency to end up dead, only by keeping their demands light will they be seen as a mere annoyance rather than a threat that has to be dealt with. Though the person being blackmailed may still have to develope contingency plans in case things change.
I'm with jeepster on wondering just what Mary's suggestions are! I really hope this turns out to be a long running series with all kinds of adventures along the way. It has a bit in common with a favorite story of mine written by Watcher called "A Girl and Her Hood", while that story had a malicious actor in it the protagonist was foreshadowed to have the last laugh in the end :)
Til next time!

[imreadonly2]

Another brilliant chapter, and I love Hallie, and I REALLY LOVED the auditor. The tension of the situation, of being in the grasp of someone with official authority over you, is wonderfully erotic. I also love the fact that he makes her talk about herself in the 3rd person at the end, as if she's just another pony girl on her own ranch, which perfectly captures the dynamic she both loves and loathes. It was deliciously written and so well done! THANK YOU FOR THE WONDERFUL 4th of JULY TREAT! Joe

[imreadonly2]

Texas Department of Agriculture
Slavery & Livestock Division
Elias Ramirez State Office Building
5425 Polk Street, G-20
Houston, TX 77023

Lois Spalding
Spinning Wheel Pony Ranch
1000 Hitching Post Lane
Richmond, TX 77406

RE: USA-TX57-F8J7-Q781

Dear Ms. Spalding,

It has come to our attention that you have a pony girl in your inventory that is not a registered slave. While this asset has a SIN number, as an additional protection the Department requires that under TX-37730 the Sin number should also be branded, preferably on the inside left or right butt cheek, as an added safeguard. We request a written receipt for such operation, or other documentary evidence, to be presented to our office within 60 days of the receipt of this letter.

Thank you for your attention and attention in this matter.

Sincerely,

Belulah Bangles
Assistant Junior Clerk, Texas Department of Agriculture

XXX

Houston Lone Star Bank
1567 Bush Blvd
Houston, TX 77023

Lois Spalding
Spinning Wheel Pony Ranch
1000 Hitching Post Lane
Richmond, TX 77406

RE: USA-TX57-F8J7-Q781

Dear Lois Spalding,

Your payment on your mortgage was made after 2PM on the date (6/1/21) which meant that it was credited to the next business day. You are now in default of your loan. As of 6/2/21, a bank lien was placed on your property, prohibiting the transfer of any assets or chattel from said property.

Under the terms of your mortgage agreement 484-383-883 dated 1/1/03, a penalty is due. An official from our bank will arrive at your facility at 9AM on 7/30/21. At this time, you must have all of your inventory available and ready for display, as per the inventory filing on your last official audit. The official will select 1 (ONE) pony for sale, with the proceeds to be sold by the bank at the Longhorn Auction House the following day. Proceeds, after the commission paid to the auction house, will be split evenly between you and the bank. At this point, the penalty will be paid, and your loan lien will be lifted, and you once again be free buy and sell inventory. Failure to fully comply with terms of your loan may lead to foreclosure proceedings on your property.

We know you have a choice in bankers, and we appreciate you choosing Houston Lone Star Bank. Have a wonderful day!

Sincerely,

Samantha Sharkly
Agricultural Loan Department, Houston Lone Star Bank

[jeepster]

Interesting! Both scenarios would create a great chapter in Lois's story or adventure!

[Carl Bradford]

As always, Joe's creativity overwhelms me; as you know, the plot for part 5 came from his fertile (as in drenched in hormones) imagination, and I intend to use some of his other suggestions, including putting a picture of her branded butt on the ranch's web site. Of course, it's entirely possible that either or both of the official-looking letters Joe posted today is a Phishing attack, a forgery intended to get possession of Lois' assets (and perhaps where her ass-sets) illegally. Perhaps a fake bank official or Ag official kidnaps Ginger?
At some point, I might well use one of these plots. However, I already have sketched out through part 10 and I'm working on part 7 today. So far, she has used a new form of pony power to buy the silence of one government inspector, so I'm moving away from exposure to the government and more towards her being a plaything of other pony ranchers. In Part 6, for example, she gets a field trip, being sent for a long weekend to be used and trained (in accordance with her own conditioning regimen of teasing and denying sex--shades of Sarah Hollister) at another ranch. That gave me a chance to have her fully tacked up as a pony and riding in a horse trailer. Plus, based on some other reader comments, I intend to make Hailie a little more dominant and demanding while she's "training" her boss. I also have a far-fetched scheme to put Mary into harness, as well.
My mind is not set in concrete; please keep the suggestions coming. In the meantime, however, bear with me and see if my story line is sufficient to satisfy your prurient interests.

[jeepster]

Damn Carl ! I like where your mind is going. Haille as a real pony trainer to Lois and going to another farm! Two scenes I was hoping for!

[dtrelsky]

I'm with Jeepster on this! I am also very excited to hear that you have planned out more installments and are already so far along writing them!
On the subject of the possible phishing emails, I think that if the bank reacted that way they are just asking to lose business. The SIN brand I could see being put off by either the brand she already got or something like a tracker chip.

[Mr. Smith]

Carl,

I a liking the idea of Haille becoming more dominant leading me to hope this means that we will see Haille using a strapon with Lois. Stories with women using strapons on other women always hit the mark for me.

Not seeing the need for a SIN branded onto Lois since there is already one tattoed on her lip. Just seems repetetive. And I am the guy that likes putting multiple brands on a slave.

Another great chapter with well developed characters.

Mr. Smith.

[imreadonly2]

Howdy Lois!

As you know, my daughter Abby is a student in the Ag program at University of Texas, studying Veterinary Slave Medicine. Her 4-H group is planning on having a float in the parade this year at the Slave Expo at the Convention Center. They have a brunette & a blonde & a black girl & a hispanic pony girl and a China girl on the team to pull it, but they really need a redhead. It's an old west, covered wagon theme, and the wagon is authentic and kind of heavy, particularly with all the kids from 4-H program on it, so they really need a 6 girl team. Anyway, last weekend one of my hands mentioned redheads to your girl Hailie, and she said you have a slave called Ginger with gorgeous red hair and she sounds perfect. Could I rent her for the weekend? In addition to the parade, the kids would probably use her in their booth to show off some of their vet skills, but they'd go easy on the whip and get her back to you in a tick. A lot of horse trading goes on during those shows, so if you want to set a price on her Abby will be happy to show her off to any potential buyers, or just let you review the bids later.

I know it's short notice, but you remember how I helped your daddy out when they almost foreclosed on him and you both said you owed me one, and since it's for my darling daughter Abby I'm going to see if your marker's good. I need Ginger no later than Thursday evening, to get her ready for the show this weekend, so let me know what the rental fee is for this little filly and when I can pick 'er up!

Are you entering any of your ponies in the contests? Still pretty pissed you beat me for the blue ribbon in jumping last year, and the gold for dressage. Damn if you don't know how to crack a whip, girl! Your ponies sure are good at steeplechase, particularly the splashdowns in that freezing water. Anyway, hoping to see you at the big show, so I can buy you a Texas size steak!

Thanks, partner!

Tex Rider
Dancer Ranch

[dtrelsky]

I like the idea of Ginger helping to fill in for a redhead pony girl pulling a float for some college kids. I think rather than being carelessly mentioned by Hailie though it would be a better fit if she learned of a need for a redhead and Mary making the offer to help out a fellow rancher instead of old debts being called in. Particularily since it sounded like she wasn't involved with the ranch before inheriting it sometime in the past year. But being new to the local scene she might be looking to make her own connections in the scene. I've been under the assumption the ranch was making quite the profit even before she inherited it so I expect most adventures she gets up to wouldn't be due to financial troubles but rather her own interest and establishing goodwill with her colleagues. After all if you've done them a favor already you might not have to enter a bidding war over that pony girl you both want.
It just occured to me she should probably try to pick herself up a redhead or two that could help deflect attention from her being the only redheaded pony girl on her ranch. Similar in body type but no doppleganger to steal her life away or anything.

[lovethissite]

Carl: I just read all the comments. I loved some of the ideas as you said you did. This is a great series and Lois is really pushing the envelope, and living a very dangerous life as a somewhat, but maybe short lived free woman. I have no suggestions on the future chapters, other than to thank you for the story, and good luck on your storyline. Thanks again, I look forward to all the upcoming chapters.

[bertrumm00057]

Carl, up to five now. If Lois does get some other red haired ponygirls, she should name them Scarlet, Ruby and Cherry.