Breeding the Pony Girl, Pt. 07

[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 pure fantasy. Thanks to Joe Doe for expert web page design.)

(Mary Jacobs’ viewpoint)

The web page of the Spinning Wheel Pony Ranch featured a photograph of a woman’s buttock that bore the ranch’s brand, the seared outline of a spoked wheel with a wide bar below it to represent the treadle and one rod running from the center of the wheel to the spindle on the right side. Lois Spalding, the wealthy, 29-year-old woman who owned the Spinning Wheel, had designed that web page to convey just how serious we were about turning human slaves into championship ponies.

Until the events I’m about to relate, however, only five people knew that the shapely, branded ass cheek on that web site belonged to Lois herself—although as her stable manager I bore an identical brand on my middle-aged rear end.

I thought that might get your attention. Long story short: Lois got a sexual charge out of pretending to be one of her own pony girls, and I had helped her dress up the first time she was mounted (in all three openings) by her pony boy stallion, 25-year-old Stud (believe me, his cock and balls lived up to that name). When I suggested that, to blend into the herd on future occasions, Lois needed to have her ranch brand on her rump, she had insisted that I experience the same thing along with her. One Saturday, we had checked into the Longhorn Slave Market under kennel rules that required us to be slave naked, collared, and cuffed. It actually was a lot of fun to have four hunky slave wranglers gangbang us (since they took care to ensure we enjoyed the process), but the final step, in which we got our nipples pierced and our asses burned, was nothing but pain. (Sounds like the old joke where the physician gives a prescription to a masochist: “Take two ass-burns and call me in the morning.” Only it wasn’t a joke that next morning.)

Since then, Lois had engaged in “field trips,” pretending to be a slave in various situations and usually getting herself fucked slave stupid in the process, which for her was the object of the exercise. But now I had lost a bet that promised to expose both of our reputations as well as our branded behinds.

I probably shouldn’t have told Lois about the bet while she was drinking a beer, because it turned into a classic spit-take that wasted most of a cold longneck. “You promised them WHAT?”

“Them” in this case were our counterparts at the Tribade Training Ranch, owner Moira O’Neill and manager Sylvia Marcus. Yeah, I agreed to a foolish bet with them on the outcome of a harness race between our stallion Stud and their champion Arnold. Stud had never lost a race before; how was I to know that Arnold was as much of a terminator as his namesake?

The bet was that the losing pair of free women had to spend 48 hours as pony girls for the winners. That in itself would be embarrassing and painful, since ponies are routinely whacked with whips or otherwise disciplined. But the name of Moira’s ranch should convey the additional issue, which was that Moira and Sylvia were probably the most out-there, un-closeted lesbians in East Texas, INCLUDING Austin. They seemed like nice people, but I guess they’d been hassled so often that they went out of their way to fulfil the ridiculous stereotypes of being Butch. I have absolutely no objections to whatever kind of intimate relations occur between consenting adults; I had just politely declined when Sylvia had propositioned me the year before.

Now, however, my big mouth had obligated Lois and me to spend a weekend as de facto slaves to these two ladies. And slaves don’t get to say “no” to any kind of sex their owners demand. I felt bad about the bet for myself, and even worse that I was dragging Lois (who looks a hell of lot sexier than I) into it. I could tell she was about to quote Oliver Hardy (“Here’s another nice mess you’ve gotten me into,”) but one look at my face reminded her that she owed me, big time, for going along with her to the Longhorn to get myself nipple-pierced and branded. So, she had to swallow her bile and go along with it. No telling what else we might have to swallow that weekend.

*****

Most pony ranchers live by the old-fashioned idea that a verbal promise is binding, so there was no reneging on the bet. There was still a lot of negotiating involved before we fulfilled the agreement two weeks later—non-disclosure agreements, promises not to take any images, record us in any way, or divulge our identity to others, and so on. Even with such limitations, it’s a scary thing for two independent women to become slaves in the power of two other women who planned to inflict unspecified humiliations on us. The final arrangement was that Lois and I would arrive at their ranch, already in full pony mode, by 5 p.m. on a given Friday, and could be picked up 48 hours later.

That schedule meant confiding our secret to the other two people at the Spinning Wheel Ranch who knew about Lois’ (and now my) propensity to play pony slut: my husband and the head cook, Bill, and one of our most experienced pony trainers, Hailie Wilson. By that point, Haile had spent several evenings driving Pony Girl Ginger (Lois) around the back roads of the ranch. Now, however, Haile insisted that she needed to give ME the same training in preparation for our fun-filled weekend as pony femmes at the Tribade.

I started to complain that I had spent 25 years training pony girls, so I didn’t need to practice being one while looking foolish. Yet, Lois agreed with Hailie that I had to learn to obey rather than direct things. In fact, she added, Hailie should harness us up in tandem, so that we were accustomed to working together when Moira and Sylvia wanted us to pull a sulky or buggy for them. Trust Lois to find a way to indulge her own submissiveness, and I could tell that Hailie REALLY liked the idea of controlling both of her bosses in harness. Talk about power exchanges—going from owner and manager to two pony sluts driven by our own employee must be close to a perfect freefall from top to bottom. And I had the feeling that my branded bottom was likely to feel the whip a few times.

Hailie usually drove Lois around on Saturday evenings, when most of our staff were out drinking and the full-time inventory was locked into their stalls. So about 6 p.m. on the next Saturday, we gathered in B-18, the modified stall where Lois usually transformed herself into a pony. I had brought along my own, newly-acquired set of pony boots, bustier, bit and bridle headdress, and even a damned ponytail butt plug. For 15 minutes, Lois and I helped each other get dressed, tightening straps and installing the hated ponytails. I felt quite vulnerable when she had me put my arms behind my back, one hand on the opposite elbow, while she wrapped the leather sleeve around my forearms, rendering them immobile. She told me to open wide while she fitted the bit into my mouth and strapped on the headdress, complete with hair comb (for my “mane”) and blinders beside my eyes.

From my point of view, things became much more uncomfortable when Hailie appeared to bind Lois’ arms and install her bit and bridle. Just when I thought we were finished, Hailie snapped carabiniers through Lois’ nipple rings, then threaded the “tit reins” connected to those carabiniers back through the rings under my boss’s arms. Hailie picked up another set of tit reins and advanced on me, obviously intending to equip me the same way (which would ensure considerable discomfort whenever she pulled back on the reins to halt me!) Talking around the unfamiliar bit in my mouth, I tried to tell my long-time subordinate—and now my temporary mistress—that I didn’t need the second set of reins, but that only made her more insistent. I had never seen her look so exasperated before.

Once she had me hooked up, Hailie remarked, “This evening, I’m the trainer and you’re the ponies. Ponies don’t talk without permission, so I guess we’ll have to use these.” So saying, she wrapped an electronic collar around my neck, one that would convert any human speech into horsey sounds. When I shied a little, she grasped all four reins, (attached to my mouth bit and my nipple rings) and pulled firmly downward. I got the message and stood stock still while she finished collaring us.

Our new mistress continued her monologue: “I learned to be a trainer from one of the greatest ever” she remarked, looking directly at me. “And she got upset whenever I tried to be too kind to ponies. My mentor always told me that ‘you’re not doing the pony any favors by being soft. Always maintain the standards and ensure the pony suffers the consequences when she disobeys.’” Well, trapped by my own words; guess I’d better behave for this girl—I mean, this mistress. Just then she added. “And that applies to the two fillies I have to train tonight—or should I say one filly named Ginger and one old mare named Maud.” (A pony girl that has foaled is usually called a mare, but I didn’t like to be reminded that I was twice the age of most of the ponies on the ranch. How to kick a broad when she’s down.)

Having established that she was in charge, Hailie gathered our bridles and led us to the step machine inside the same barn, where I spent 20 minutes stumbling in an attempt to trot properly. I don’t know which was worse, Hailie’s scathing critiques of my stupidity or the sound of my exasperated whinnying. The whacks I got on my butt reminded me that I needed to be more tolerant of new ponies trying to master the step. I didn’t hear Lois getting swatted, making me even more humiliated that I, the expert trainer, couldn’t do what any first-week pony slut was expected to do.

Next she led us outside to a waiting sulky. I was still learning to walk in those crazy, high-heels-with-horseshoes boots, and I had to tiptoe obediently behind her for fear of getting my breasts tugged. At least focusing on my walking reduced my acute sense of helpless exposure in public. The two temporary pony girls waited while their mistress harnessed them, side by side, in front of the buggy. I hoped that she would take us away from the barns quickly in case another hand saw us. First, however, she pulled out her smart phone, said “smile,” and took side-shot photos of our fronts, complete with bits, bridles, and tit rings. My mind told me that the blinkers on the sides of our faces would make us unrecognizable, but it was still nerve wracking to have someone photograph me in such an outlandish, vulnerable bondage. Then I heard her walk back to the sulky and felt the added weight when she sat down. For some reason, she said “smile” again, and I heard her phone clicking behind us. (And that, my friends, is how we got the current images on the ranch website, showing a PAIR of branded female backsides on one side and a PAIR of blinkered, bitted, and tit-roped ponies on the other. I didn’t even get a modelling fee for the photos—that night I literally “went the extra mile” for my employer—who was harnessed right beside me!)

I didn’t see those images until we got done, however. For the next two hours, until the last vestige of sunset disappeared, she worked us hard. I realized that Lois and Hailie were right, that I had no idea how to BE a pony girl even though I had years of TRAINING pony girls. It felt as if Lois and I were pulling in different directions at least half the time, and even when we did get in synch with each other, my body was not accustomed to the heavy pulling and trotting (high-stepping) necessary to move the sulky. Every time I took a wrong step I heard and felt a sharp swish from my young mistress’ whip across my ass. The first few times this happened, the electronic collar translated my startled reaction into neighs. It didn’t really hurt much, but being switched by one of my own subordinates, who was treating me like the rawest piece of pony meat, was deeply humiliating. I had to keep reminding myself that she was only doing what I had taught her to do, and that with any luck practicing now would avoid the deeper shame of failure when Moira and Sylvia played pony games with us.

At one point, Hailie called a halt, in the process pulling the bit well to the back of my mouth and giving a zing to both of my nipples. In a leisurely manner, she dismounted, walked around front, and stuck the straw of a water bottle into my mouth. The whole time this child was watering me, her other hand was teasing my labia and groping my boobs, all while talking to me like a pet (“That’s a GOOD little pony slut; don’t my fingers feel nice in your wet slave cunt?”)—just as if I were any 18-year-old bimbo in our herd! Damned if I didn’t nod my head, nicker, and stomp my hoof in assent! The really embarrassing thing was that I enjoyed her teasing me, and even began to imagine how nice it would be to spend a weekend under Mistress Hailie. Where did THAT idea come from, I wondered? The image of someone using Pony Mare Maud as a sex toy had become oddly exciting.

I was exhausted when we finally got back to the barn (complete with another full pull on my bit and tits!) As Hailie unhooked and unlaced us, I saw a look of apprehension on her face. She was clearly wondering whether I was going to tear her a new one for the way she had treated me. Instead, when she removed my bit and collar, I thanked her sincerely for teaching me, and said that I had expected nothing less from my best trainer. She went away happy, and I went to my quarters for a long bath.

Bill knew what we had been up to that evening, but he fell out of his chair laughing when he caught sight of my well-switched butt. Of course, he offered to take me out for a spin the next evening, and when I declined, he suggested that he might do so at the end of next weekend, when I’d be tacked up and unable to resist. I recounted the whole story of my evening, trying to make it seem humorous in hopes of reducing the sting I would feel when my own husband pulled me off a horse trailer by those damned tit reins.

*****

That climactic moment came soon enough. Four free people—Lois, Hailie, Bill, and I—climbed into a king cab pickup truck when we left the Spinning Wheel on the following Friday. After a halt at a layby, however, two free people drove the truck through the gate at the Tribade Ranch, where they led two bound, branded, and defenseless pony girls off the trailer and turned them over to a grinning Moira O’Neill and Sylvia Marcus. Bill and Hailie pretended to be just two bored hands, delivering some unidentified pony sluts because their boss had told them to. Even in our outlandish attire, we were instantly recognizable to Moire and Sylvia, but Bill produced a transfer hand receipt for two ponies—Ginger and Maud—and turned down our front lips so that our new mistresses could verify the slave identification numbers. (If you’re wondering, this scene was going to be deeply humiliating no matter how we played it, but if we went missing now there were two witnesses who could swear they had turned over two human beings, with SINs as listed on the hand receipt, to Sylvia at the Tribade Ranch. We trusted Moira and Sylvia not to keep us longer than 48 hours, but this was an insurance policy.)

The dust from that pickup truck hadn’t settled before Moira and Sylvia were laughing, fit to bust, while looking at their helpless new playthings. We had been reduced from their social and business equals to sexualized slaves, and needless to say I was blushing.

(Lois Spalding’s perspective)

My previous adventures in a collar had seen me pretending to be someone other than Lois Sterling, ranch owner and pony trainer. Now, however, there was no fiction or cover story—I had reduced myself to slavery and surrendered to two competitors who knew exactly who they had to play with.

As I expected, they cut to the chase, first extracting our bits but leaving our headgear on. Then, with complete lack of modesty, the two well-built women dropped their jeans and panties, sat down on two high stools in front of their main barn, and told us to get to work. It was awkward to bend over while wearing pony boots and arm binder, but I managed it, although I was so unbalanced that my face was shoved firmly into her crotch. Which was what she wanted anyway.

Being heterosexual, I had only two previous experiences with this situation—the slave wranglers had told Mary and me to 69 while we were waiting to be branded, and then a female trainer at Jameson Ranch had insisted I get her off when the male trainers were not around. Now I went to work—not only did I want to get this over with by getting Moira off, but to be honest I got a little thrill out of servicing a dominant woman. Besides, she was shaved smooth and both smelled and tasted sweet, so it wasn’t much of a hardship. I started writing the alphabet with my tongue across her labia and clit. In minutes, her hands were maneuvering my head between her thighs, trying to direct my tongue and lips to different spots. Those thighs muffled my ears, but vaguely I heard approving sounds come out of both of the women in front of us. It didn’t take too long before Moira came (twice), and I think Sylvia wasn’t far behind her.

They let us back up, restored the bits to our mouths, and then gave us water bottle straws to suck. Both women were in a mellow mood after their servicing, so they used kind voices to praise our tongues while they teased our bound bodies in the same way that Hailie had done six days earlier. This part wasn’t meant to be humiliating, but again I was the subhuman bimbo pet being groped and talked to like any brainless slave.

Next on their agenda was having us pull a sulky; as Sylvia was harnessing us, she stopped suddenly and called for her boss to come look. I knew what they were looking at—the brands on our asses. Mary and I had dreaded this discovery, and had promised never to admit the details even if we could talk—our whole attitude would be “What? You mean you DON’T have your ranch brand on your butts?”

It didn’t come to that, though. Moira whistled, giggled, then fondled my left buttock, saying “You girls are kinkier than we are, and that’s saying something. Any woman who freely gets herself branded is all right in my book!” Sylvia seemed to agree and this strange discovery, on top of our previous tongue work, changed the whole tone of how they treated us that weekend.

We still spent the weekend as their slaves, of course, but their efforts at jeering and humiliation were (mostly) light-hearted. I cringed the first few times I heard the sound of a whip, but both of our temporary mistresses were skilled horsewomen who just barely grazed our asses when they wanted us to start trotting; it was too hot for cantering, thank heavens. They giggled whenever we whinnied in response to their whacks.

I’m not going to lie; it was embarrassing, uncomfortable, and painful to be treated like a pony in training. Even though the whip strokes were gentle, there was nothing gentle about feeling my bit pulled into the back of my mouth while my boobs got a painful jerk from the tit reins. Hailie hadn’t been too gentle on me when she trained me, but I found those Saturday evenings as a sort of fantasy excursion. As Moira and Sylvia took turns jerking us around, reality set in—this was what it felt like for our own ponies to be reduced to docile beasts of burden, doing only what we were forced to do. I imagined that the situation really galled Mary, but as for me? I slipped into sub-space and enjoyed it. My thighs were damp long before we finished.

*****

I was surprised and pleased when, upon returning to the barn, they removed our bits, reins, and arm binders. Sylvia told us to use the shower built into the stall, drink a lot of water, and eat the dishes of vegetable stew waiting for us.

Three-quarters of an hour later, she returned and reimposed slave discipline. As pony ranchers, we had frequently ordered our property to assume the positions for “collar” and “back hands,” but (except for our recent trip to get branded) we weren’t accustomed to obeying such orders. Then Sylvia clipped leashes to our collars and led us out of the barn, across the open yard, and into the main house where she lived with Sylvia. There, she disconnected our wrist cuffs and ordered us to kneel facing the sofa.

Without any preliminary, Moira stated, “Sylvia and I have been talking, and you two both lick pussy too well to be Lez-virgins. So, I’m curious—are you closeted lovers?”

We looked at each other, then turned our heads back to the front and replied, with complete honesty, “No, mistress.”

“OK, then.” Moira resumed. “Have you ever 69-ed with each other, though?”

That took no consultation; we both had to reply “Yes, Mistress.” We didn’t want to explain the circumstances!

“In that case, let’s see you do it.” Our clumsiness and hesitation were unfeigned, but we eventually got into position, Mary lying on top with my head between her thighs and vice versa. By now, I had adjusted to the techniques of GIVING oral pleasure, but it still startled me when I felt Mary’s tongue on my clit. Not only the oral sex itself but the close contact with a friend’s body felt comforting and mildly enjoyable. After about ten or fifteen minutes of licking and fondling, it was obvious that we were nowhere near climaxing, so they told us to separate and return to our kneeling stance, this time with our fingers interlaced behind our necks.

Once again, our “hostesses” shed their pants & panties, this time completely. And then they casually strapped on dildoes—large, anatomically correct black plastic dildoes complete with veins and free-swinging balls—whose butt ends occupied their birth canals with nubs that would rub against their clits.

“OK, sluts—you need more practice at worshipping pussies, but I’m sure you’re already expert cocksuckers. Get to work again!”

I will admit that I have a lot more experience—both as a free woman and a pretend slave—swallowing cocks than “tonguing twats.” But I usually service real dicks that grow once I began licking. These things were manufactured with soft surfaces to imitate skin, but they were still less flexible and comfortable than a real penis. Sucking this fake was boring and deep-throating it was difficult. Still, I did my best to satisfy her, and I heard Mary slurping away next to me.

After a few minutes of this effort, they withdrew their intruders, gave us each a brief drink of water, and ordered their new “slaves” to walk around and stand behind the sofa. The next steps were predictable, and in seconds Mary and I had our hands secured behind us and our faces bent forward onto the sofa cushions. Unceremoniously, a foot prodded me to spread my legs wide, and then one of the women (I think Sylvia) brought her battering ram up to the charge and thrust deeply into my cunt. The previous oral action must have excited me more than I realized, because the rather large plastic dick slipped easily into me. From the pleased grunt that I heard Mary issue from beside me, her body must have been as ready as mine was for penetration.

For the next few minutes, our dominant partners played the role of typical, selfish males, slapping our butts repeatedly, describing us in vulgar terms (“slut,” “whore,” and “pony bitch” being the least offensive) and rhythmically, rapidly pounding into us. But then Sylvia bent forward over me so that I felt her generous boobs pressing against my back. One hand began fondling and mashing my breasts while the other wormed its way between me and the sofa to give me some welcome relief by playing with my clit. A strong climax surprised me, roaring out as I shook and vibrated, enjoying myself more than I had on several previous occasions when I let a man fuck me.

As I built towards a second peak, Sylvia whispered in my ear, “One of the advantages of having a woman ‘do’ you is she knows much more about what feels good than any man.” After that, I couldn’t think clearly for the next several minutes—the combination of physical sensations and my own submissiveness carried me off to a blissful land of helpless pleasure. I had hated it when a snotty female at Jameson’s ranch had fucked me with a strap-on, but this time I enjoyed myself so much that I was really glad that the shaft in my cunt could pump in, out, in, out, in, out, in—indefinitely without going soft. I was supposed to be a pony this weekend, but at that moment I felt more like a rabbit, wanting nothing better than to fuck forever. . .

When I came to again, Sylvia was extracting her plastic phallus from my body while petting my back and butt. Then it got even more exciting/ demeaning. Sylvia tied Mary upright to a pole so she could watch as the two dommes double-teamed me. I was kneeling in Slave 4s on a low table as Sylvia insisted that I lick my own juices off her fake Johnson, while Moira enthusiastically explored my (temporary) slave cunt, having already pushed a slim dildo up my back passage. Just when I got into subspace and began to enjoy being spit-roasted, the ranch owner extracted the little dildo and replaced it with the much larger caliber strap-on. For the first few minutes she gently, slowly stretched my intestines, but then she got up to full speed, butt-fucking me while Sylvia encouraged her to “Ride ‘em, cowgirl.” I felt every inch of that thing, including its false veins, sliding in and out of my anus. Of course, knowing me, you recognize that I found the ultimate submission absolutely thrilling and imagined having Richard Jameson use me the same way while that state inspector stuffed my mouth. The way Moira and Sylvia were grinning at each other suggested that they had detected my submissiveness.

Eventually, I got tied to a pole and Mary knelt to be spit-roasted in the same way. Thank heavens Moira thoroughly washed her strap-on before putting it into Mary’s mouth. At that moment, my stable boss got to experience the true meaning of “betting your ass” and losing that bet. Her face was red with embarrassment, but her nipples were erect and she was gushing between her thighs; she might not admit it, but I think she enjoyed getting DPed with all-day-sucker strap-ons.

When they finished the second round, it felt nice to have Moira sooth me as she cooed about what a good fuck I had been. A warm damp cloth appeared to wipe me off. Minutes later, having dressed again, Sylvia led two stumbling, tired slaves back to their stall. She removed our leather cuffs, pointed out mouthwash and disposable toothbrushes, and told us to be on our knees, with boots, bustier, and tail plug already installed, when she came for us in the morning.

In minutes, Mary and I were sharing the one bunk in that stall but too tired to discuss our strange evening. As I drifted off to sleep, I noticed how comfortable I was cuddling with my friend and stable manager—not sexy, you understand, but then we’d had enough sex for one day! Just nice and reassuring. I had already suspected that I might have some bi tendencies, but Moira and Sylvia seemed to know how to bring them out in me. When this was over, I’d have to discuss the situation with Mary. If I dared.

*****

(Mary Jacobs’ perspective)

OK; I’ll admit it. I still don’t enjoy being humiliated, but I have to admit that those women really knew how to push my buttons.

The next day was more of the same. As skilled pony trainers, the two women treated us like the trainee beasts of burden we were. They made us work hard, practicing the trotting step and obediently pulling them around in a sulky. But they didn’t abuse us—frequent rests in the shade, lots of water, and only the gentlest, almost caressing whacks or spanks when we made mistakes. Before we started, in fact, Sylvia handed me a bottle of SPF 50 lotion and supervised as we coated each other. Of course, she claimed that we had “missed a few spots;” once our forearms were bound again, she rubbed excessive amounts of lotion all over the tops of our breasts, around our cunts, and deep up butt cracks (not failing to goose our crinkled openings). Which meant that we started the training with a mild buzz of arousal.

Saturday evening, we were again freed to wash and eat, but then had to put on our pony gear before being led, bitted and helpless, to another barn where—surprise, surprise—two mounting stands were positioned opposite each other. Lois and I were soon bound bottoms-up over the padded railings, but in contrast to normal mounting procedure, our heads were left untethered. Moira announced, as if she were granting us a great favor, that she wanted us to have a good view of the next process. And she pointed out that we were surrounded by mirrors so that we could see both ourselves and each other. Oh, boy, I thought—now we’re in for it.

Under the right circumstances, I liked a good pounding as much as the next woman, but unlike my boss I didn’t moon around dreaming of being tied to a mounting stand while some pony boy fucked my brains out. I was feeling truly humiliated in this position, but then two female hands led in a pair of impressively endowed male slave ponies. Sylvia took control of their reins and dismissed the hands, each of whom fondled her charge’s erect shaft just before departing.

Standing between Lois and me, where could we see both her and the stallions, she introduced the slave muscle as Arnold and Charles.

“Ordinarily,” Sylvia snickered, “we put these boys in your position and use strap-ons to milk them. Isn’t that right, boys?” The two males turned red, nodded their heads, and stomped their right hooves. “We’re not man haters, you understand—they need to be milked to avoid a backup of semen, but we don’t want them to get ideas above their station in a female-run ranch. Two days before each race meeting, however, we let the stallions mount some of our pony girls and promise them a lot more pony pussy if they win their races. As you discovered,” she continued with a little smirk, nodding at me, “that approach seems to really motivate them to win. So, since Arnold out-raced your stallion, it seems only appropriate that he gets to fuck you as well, don’t you agree? With any luck, Arnold will do both of you, but he may get too excited about the idea and finish early; we brought along Charles so that nobody feels neglected.”

Without further preliminaries, Sylvia led Arnold up until his prick was aimed at my face like a weapon. I’d need a tape measure to decide who had the larger equipment, Arnold or Stud, but at the moment all I worried about was whether that flesh torpedo would fit in either end of me! Just before that monster obscured my view, I saw Moira leading the other stallion, Charles, towards Lois.

There was a pause, evidently waiting until Charles was properly aligned. All I could do was stare at the slab of stiff flesh in front of me.

“And now,” I heard Moira chuckling, “for a command that is common at most pony ranches but very rare at the Tribade: suck horse cock, pony slut!”

I didn’t have any choice about the matter even if I wanted to resist. Sylvia’s hand pushed Arnold’s spear against my lips, and he flexed his hips, occupying my mouth on the first thrust. I set to work tonguing and licking the first few inches of a shaft that was far too wide and long for me to swallow entirely. A few seconds later, however, all I could do was hang on and try to breathe. Arnold was so excited by his unexpected treat that he was frantically fucking my face. Sylvia pulled him off (using the leash wrapped around his balls), telling him to calm down or he would finish too soon.

After a momentary respite, I heard and felt someone climbing up behind me. Once again, my cunt was slicker than a West Texas highway during a cloudburst, so Arnold (I think, because it looked as if Charles was doing the same to Lois) had no trouble slamming balls deep into my aging body in only three pushes. An involuntary wail escaped my mouth, as I saw Lois’ face contort in ecstasy as she, too, was well-shafted. At least now I could breathe as Arnold quickly built up his rhythm until he reached what I can only call ramming speed. This young and hung stallion firmly grasped my hips while activating every nerve ending in my gash; whoever says that size doesn’t matter needs to try Arnold’s super-size! Two stray thoughts wandered through my distracted mind. First, I finally understood Lois’ obsession with being mounted by well-hung livestock while she was helpless on a mounting stand; she was on to something here. And second, if I’d know how much fun this was, I would have thrown the bet as soon as Sylvia proposed it!

(Lois Sterling’s perspective)

Up until that day, the sexual high point of my life had been the Sunday morning when I dressed as a pony girl and Stud ravaged all three of my openings. Experiencing a similarly “hard time” while watching my friend Mary get used just as thoroughly, all as part of the humiliation of submitting ourselves to another ranch owner, was nirvana for a submissive slut like me. Mary’s face had a goofy grin of happiness on it as every inch of her innards was conquered by Arnold, the 20-something slave stallion who had defeated our own pony boy in a race. I had no doubt that I looked similarly drunk on sex and submission, because I was.

Just when Charles had built up a rhythm that pulverized whatever brains I still possessed, he was suddenly gone from between my legs. I whinnied in frustrated disappointment. For a moment, I suspected that Moira and Sylvia had decided to deprive us of climaxes or at least make us beg to be fucked like the horny little bitches we were becoming. Then I realized that they were just swapping partners—apparently Moira wanted to ensure that the stallion who had bested our champion, Stud, would plant his flag(pole) in both of our sopping boxes. A few seconds later and a new young cock, this one belonging to Arnold, was charging up between my thighs. Bliss.

I think I passed out from the endorphin high of that superlative schtupping. I can’t have been unconscious for long, though, because when I came to, I was again facing an oversized shlong, only this one was covered with both of our juices. As a free woman, I had always objected to swallowing cum or licking a sticky prick, but Arnold had given me such pleasure that it didn’t bother me (too much) to “clean up afterwards.”

I also had to lick Moira again—Sylvia and she had enjoyed watching us get laid low but wanted to get off themselves. The slave mantra of “I live to serve you” popped into my head as my tired tongue dutifully brought her to another orgasm. Then they sent us off to wash up and collapse together for another night’s sleep. If nothing else, this weekend of ponies and pussy licking had brought me much closer to Mary.

*****

Sunday was almost an anti-climax, as if Moira and Sylvia had almost (but not quite) run out of evil ideas to use for subjugating their temporary ponies. They still drove us around the ranch a few times, and we spent several hours in the shade by the ranch’s pond, licking their hairless muffs and even their starfish—the latter, fortunately was clean but not much fun for me. As the time approached for our deliverance, they drove us back to where we had been dropped off, then flipped us (still fully tacked as ponies) over those same high stools so that we were facing towards the ranch gate. And THEN Moira aimed Charles’ shaft into my wet pudenda while Sylvia helped Arnold to the same access in Mary. As I watched the Spinning Wheel truck and trailer drive slowly towards me, I thought I could see the moment in the eyes of Hailie and Bill when they recognized the identity of the ponies being thoroughly screwed in front of them. By now, I had lost all shame, and had a noisy climax just as Charles unloaded inside me and our two designated rescuers climbed out of the truck! Mary was obviously mortified by her situation, but still seemed to enjoy being used. I wonder what Bill thought about a slave stallion cuckolding him in front of so many witnesses.

Then we got to ride, still fully restrained, in the horse trailer until Hailie found a place to pull over and release us from pony bondage. We changed in silence, hugged each other very gently, and climbed into the truck cab to ride home in silence.

The next day, even Mary had to admit that she had enjoyed most of the weekend, although she solemnly swore never to make a bet like that again. (Chicken! I thought—I was already set for double or nothing!) At least my suffering had balanced off the brand she got for me. We actually became sort-of friends with Moira and Sylvia after that, but everyone kept their clothes and their freedom when we met socially.

(If you’re wondering, Mary gave Bill the perfect present for his next birthday: an evening driving his old mare wife around the ranch while she was tacked up and unable to speak! Just what every man says he wants—a wife who offers him all her openings and can’t complain. Hailie put me in a similar bind(ing) so that they could race the two “sluts” a few times. As dusk fell, Hailie drove me back to the barn, leaving Maud bent over the back of the other sulky, about to get shafted by her lord and master. I hear she saw both celestial and erotic stars.)

Before that, however, Mary and I spent several days recovering from the practical realities of a weekend as ponies—stiff muscles, tired tongues, and over-stretched birth canals! Seriously, stallions like Arnold should come with a “wide load” sign. Three days after we got back to the ranch, I sat down gingerly for a beer with Mary at the end of work. I suddenly had a thought.

“You know, Mary, last weekend I repaid you for the suffering you experienced at the Longhorn, and you paid the price for making that stupid bet. There’s still one person who hasn’t suffered for all this.”

“Who’s that?” she asked, but then I saw it dawning on her face.

“The guy who lost that bet for you—Stud,” I replied. I can’t decide whether to thank him for the great sex or use the ranch brand on his ass as punishment.”

“We both know how much that brand hurts, so we should think twice about doing that to him. Besides, if we brand Stud he’ll be out of action for weeks, and I bet you want to have him mount you again—purely for comparison purposes with Arnold, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” I smirked back at her. “So, until Stud gets to mount Ginger again, maybe we should try Sylvia’s motivational techniques.”

Mary looked a question at me, which I answered. “You know, milk him, then say that he’d better win his next race or it’s strap-on time with HIM on the mounting frame and one of us behind him.”

“Sounds fair to me—your next experiment in operant conditioning of ponies?”

(To be continued)

[jeepster]

Awesome! Didn't see that coming but was impressed with the chapter!

[jeepster]

Hoping you continue to examine the Mary and Mistress Hailie! Grrr I have a hard time spelling her name!

[dtrelsky]

Another great installment in this wonderful series. I definitely look forward to more interactions between Lois, Mary and Hailie! The adventure this time with the lesbian ranchers was great. I like the fact that they were also risking time in harness, it makes Lois' actions look not so far out there in comparison. Who knows what other ranchers get up to! Nice to see them being smart with the precautions taken, but no welching. While I definitely like Mary, I'm hoping we get to see Hailie stick around a bit more in the future.(maybe we can get some time from her perspective to see how she is taking all of this?) She is proving very helpful with all the training she is giving them. Seeing her training Mary and giving her harsh criticism while Lois demonstrated how well she'd learned her lessons during her previous sessions with Hailie was a nice moment, especially if Mary feels the need to be able to keep up.
Their time at the Tribade Training Ranch was good as well. The pair helping at least Lois along in exploring her latent bisexuality is great. The Spinning Wheel Pony Ranch must have all sorts of "tools" just like they have at the Tribade Training Ranch. The scene their "rescuers" saw when they came to pick them up was a great finish. Stud definitely seems to be getting spoiled to the point its affecting his performance, good thing Lois is learning all sorts of new things during her adventures *cough* I mean she is selflessly devoting herself to find better ways to train her ponies through understanding their lives!
Til the next!

[jeepster]

I LOVE the description (design) of the Spinning Wheel Ranch. Marvelous stuff!

Chapter 7 is a great addition to the story as well. I am confused a bit but your interchangeable use of the terms "Blinkers" and "Blinders" - often in the same scene. Although they accomplish the same thing by restricting the vision of a horse (pony girl in this case) they LOOK decidedly different. At one point Mary said "My mind told me that the blinkers on the sides of our faces would make us unrecognizable." Later she referred to her blinders.

Blinders consist if two pieces of leather they are part of the bridle that sit on each side of the horses eyes and restrict their vision as seen in the photo link below. The entire face of the horse/pony girl is visible.



Blinkers are usually a full hood that covers the horse's face with side pieces that also restrict the horses vision.



If Mary is worried about being recognized by wearing "blinkers" she needn't be as her face/head are completely covered except her eyes and mouth. If she was wearing "Blinders" she would have every right to be worried as most of her face would be showing!

Personally I think it makes sense that both Lois and Mary would insist on wearing "Blinkers" to protect their anonymity but it makes it much more erotic and exciting if Hailie would force them to wear "blinders" at the last minute and using her powers of persuasion convinces them that they are adequately concealed, although Mary and Lois would certainly know better thus increasing the stress factor of being recognized accidentally by surprise encounters by staff or visitors. Certainly something that could be exploited for sure. At any rate, I am not trying to be pedantic here, just trying to accurately get a vision of what the girls are wearing as the interchangeable use of the two types of harnesses may have just been typos. You may well have had a very specific use of Blinkers or Blinders in your creative mind. I'm just not sure what that is at this point.

Hooked6

[Carl Bradford]

Blinders consist if two pieces of leather they are part of the bridle that sit on each side of the horses eyes and restrict their vision as seen in the photo link below. The entire face of the horse/pony girl is visible.



Blinkers are usually a full hood that covers the horse's face with side pieces that also restrict the horses vision.





Hooked6

^^^ That's some excellent nitpicking!

There are some errors in my own stories that I wish had been pointed out to me earlier. Constructive criticism is always valuable. But it doesn't mean the story was not enjoyed or appreciated!

[Carl Bradford]

I stand corrected, or perhaps I should say toss my head, nicker, and stomp my hoof corrected. I really meant Blinders because, as you have noted, they do a better job of disguising the wearer. It will be a moot point starting with the next episode, when Ginger wears a new form of headgear (mandated for safety by the state racing commission) that does an even better job of concealing her face.
Thanks again to Mr.Smith, who has corrected similar errors in harnessing that were eliminated while still in draft.
Speaking of future episodes, I currently plan 4 or 5 more to get to a denouement that leaves Lois getting sufficient domination and penetrations to keep her happy. I don't want this EXTREMELY improbable premise to become too repetitive, but if anyone thinks it should go beyond that point, please let me know.

[Mr. Smith]

It looks like Carl and I should have consulted Hooked6 in all things related to horses. I like the blinders for the ponygirls because it dehumanizes them, treating them like an animal as it also limits their vision. Using blinkers, with the Spinning Wheel Ranch logo on it, would conceal Lois's identity while being a means of advertising the ranch while also limiting her vision as a means of exerting control. We have been discussing some sort of safety helmet that could accomplish the same thing as blinkers that would help conceal Lois's idenity during pony play dates.

Hooked6 already schooled me on the horse twitch. I have taken the horse twitch and adapted it as a tool to control stallions by looping it around there testicles and twisting it tight and then literally leading them around by their balls. Then actually pulling on my lower lip imagining a smaller version of a horse twitch that could be used on the lower lip of a ponygirl. It would be painful while also dehumanizing which is part of the goal. And then of course the ever incedious gingering the tail of a horse and now ponygirl. So far I think only Joe has used figging which is the insertion of ginger in the anus. It was used to punish slaves when being whipped. If they clenched their buttocks to protect against the whip it caused them to clamp down on the ginger causing it to burn their anus creating a catch 22 for the slave.

I see ponygirl training as an alternative method for instilling discipline in a slave girl with out relying completely on sex and pain.

I am really enjoying Carl's exploration of the ponygirl aspect of slavery.

[bertrumm00057]

^^^ That's some excellent nitpicking!

LOL, thanks for the compliment. Actually, I wasn't really nitpicking. I was just genuinely confused - my natural state it seems.

Hooked6

[jeepster]

Another thing I was wondering is who were the 5 people who knew the ass on the website was Lois's? Lois, Mary, Hailie, Bill and?

[Carl Bradford]

In my mind, the 5th person who knew that Lois had put a photo of her own seared butt on the ranch website was Sam Houston Sterling, Ag Dept inspector. He's already had a chance to do a Braille reading of that brand while he played with Lois, and he knows her real identity; for that matter, he knows enough to compare her (pre-branding) pink shot in the National Slavery Registry to the photo on the website. I'm also trying to allow for the passage of time between adventures in this series. By the time Lois and Mary have to pay that bet to Moira and Sylvia, I assume that Mr Sterling has found an excuse to do at least one more health and welfare inspection (inside and out) of Pony Girl Ginger, so he can compare a screenshot with the real thing.

Carl

[jeepster]

So maybe Maud and Ginger both visit the Breeding Barn?

[imreadonly2]

I imagine the Secretary innocently getting the image of her branded ass put on all of the stationary and checks, so every time Lois signs a check or reviews an invoice, she blushes a bit and tenses her bottom cheeks she sees her brand.

When the Longhorn Slave Market see she's using it, they decide to use it in their advertising as well. Rachel is very surprised to see her ass up on a billboard by the highway, and in their sales flyer advertising complimentary brandings with gradings. Sometimes, when she moves on a hard chair, she can still feel the ridges of her brand, so she gets rid of all the cushioned seats in her office and replaces them with hard wooden chairs. She says it's for a Western, rustic look, but Mary and Hallie know the real reason.

[orflash64]

Who's Rachel? I thought it was Lois.