The Stallion - Champion's Reward Part 1

[ZeeChromosome]

Everyone, this is all Dtrelsky's fault. If you hate it, it's his fault. If you like it, it's still his fault.
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So, I wrote "The Stallion - Arrival" based on the weird premise that "suppose the naked slave is the guy and he breeds (and sometimes impregnates) free women?" It was Carl's idea, don't blame me. If you read it, it may help you understand things, or it may just annoy you. I dunno.
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Anywho, Dtrelsky shows up on my thread and offers the following observation "I'm mostly looking forward to how many fancy rich ladies he's going to reduce to orgasmic puddles." That was my evil plan in the first place, so I welcome my fellow brother-in-evil.
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So, one "fancy rich lady being reduced to an orgasmic puddle" below!
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Note: Please ignore the "-" placeholders between my paragraphs, it's an artifact of the crappy word processor I use. I am not actually a moron (really, I swear).
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Another note: "The Bridesmaids' Tale" is coming up soon. But first, Isabelle gets hot and bothered. Is she stripped and reduced to an orgasmic puddle next? She does, and it's coming up in Part Three. If you want skip the build-up and just read the sex part, you can start there.
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Theme Song: "I need a Hero," by Bonnie Tyler. The Shrek version on Youtube is best. Watch that, then read the story.
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Where have all the good men gone and where are all the Gods?
Where's the street wise Hercules to fight the rising odds?
Isn't there a white knight upon a fiery steed?
Late at night I toss and I turn and I dream of what I need
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I need a hero
I'm holding out for a hero 'til the end of the night
He's gotta be strong and he's gotta be fast
And he's gotta be fresh from the fight
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Author's note: This story takes place in the Joe Doe legal slavery universe. I would like to thank him for having a dirty mind and also would like to thank Mr. Smith and Carl Bradford for leading the way and re-stoking my fondness for the ponies.
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Doctor Isabelle Cohen parked her car in the VIP parking of the race track and sighed. It wasn't a sigh of exhaustion, it was a sigh of released tension. She was here, she had done it. She had intentionally driven her car into a nest of slavers and asked permission to enter. It wasn't what she wanted, but something needed to change in her life and she had never been the person to shrink from making the hard choices.
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Her good friend Mary Winters had suggested it and she was right... Isabelle needed to get out more. She had been focusing on her work lately to an unhealthy degree and the tension was building up. Since her breakup with Vincent, she had shied away from social interactions and it was time to move on. She had hoped that he would forgo his unhealthy and despicable obsession with that slave girl and come back to her, but apparently it was not to be. Why would he do that? Why would he walk away from a compliant and submissive woman always ready and eager to provide whatever sexual services he needed? Why would he bother to put in the hard work of building a real relationship with a real woman? Why would he bother making the effort to be half of a partnership with a strong independent career woman where he might need to make sacrifices and allowances and meet an equal halfway? Slavery was a vile and disgusting institution and it ruined everything it touched, including Isabelle's love life. It was everywhere these days and it was wrong and it was gross and... Isabelle had just walked into the heart of it. Or driven, rather. Details.
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Now she was at a pony race. Not real ponies, that was illegal now. The cruel exploitation of using horses to run races for the amusement and entertainment of humans had been ended years ago. But for every step forward, there is a step back. Horses had been replaced with slaves and the races continued. Instead of horses tied between the poles of race carts, there were now enslaved human beings.
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Isabelle really didn't know much of the details or even the generalities of the sport. She just didn't have the interest. It was enough to her to know that it was evil and, like many other free persons, she simply averted her eyes from what was happening. What she HAD seen, though, what she HADN'T been able to avoid, were the videos of some of the more gruesome injuries that had taken place on the track. That was because Isabelle was an orthopedic surgeon. Although she had not personally had to deal with the aftermath of such cases, she felt like she needed to UN-avert her eyes in this case. Watching these videos was not a fun activity. Human pony racing was a brutal blood sport and the howling mob loved it. So one night she sat before her home computer and watched a compilation video of "The World's BEST Pony Accidents!" She had had great difficulty sleeping afterwards as images of snapping knee joints and exploding shins had intruded on her sleep. The hooved pony boots that the racing slaves were forced to wear were brutally unforgiving. And they transmitted the shock of every footfall up into the runner's legs.
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Nevertheless, Mary was right - Isabelle had just turned 36 years old and if she wanted to start a family she needed to get married soon. According to Mary, pony races attracted exactly the sort of well-to-do, educated professionals that she was seeking for a husband. Even if she didn't find a new boyfriend, she would definitely have fun and it would help her forget about Vincent. Isabelle doubted that very much, but Mary had been persistent, so here she was.
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She checked her make up in the mirror one more time and headed across the parking lot. She looked good for her age and she knew it. She was wearing a nice blue sundress, strappy sandals, and the warm morning breeze swirled her skirt around her knees as the approached the VIP entrance. Mary had some kind of connections here and instead of sitting in the hot general admission seats, they were going to be meeting in one of the luxury box suites on the mezzanine level. At least that way they would be in the air conditioning and out of the mass of rowdy and probably lecherous general admission fans.
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Isabelle did find that she was enjoying herself quite a bit, which surprised her. When she first arrived, she felt uncomfortable meeting Mary's friends at the bar, so she made an excuse to go sit in her viewing seat and check her emails. Next to her are Tasha and Abigail, a couple of Pony Ranchers' Association wives. They introduced themselves and chatted a bit. Isabelle was surprised to find that they were so very nice and friendly... for slavers.
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The race events began with an 8-pony-girl chariot driven by a gorgeous naked Amazon (credit to Mr. Smith). Riding in the chariot with her were three well-dressed men and women - the race sponsor and his wife and the head of the Southwest Regional Pony Ranchers Association, waving their hats to the crowd. As soon as the chariot came out on the track, the crowd rose and gave a big cheer. Isabelle was pretty sure they weren't cheering for the free persons in the back of the chariot as she watched 16 ring-pierced and belled boobs bounce in synchronicity. One of her new companions informed her that managing and training the official Association chariot was a pretty big project, since the team needed to be all the same height, trained to work together, have big boobs, and have the right combination of ethnicities. In Texas, that meant 4 White girls, at least two of whom need to be blondes or redheads, two Black girls, and two Latinas. The Chariot Committee is a very respected activity for wealthy ranchers' wives. She also noted that all of the girls, in addition to being pony-trained, are pleasure slut trained and will be available for breeding services (fucking) after the race.
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This disgusted Isabelle, as it exemplified all of the things she hated about modern legal slavery. These poor girls were probably all tricked, trapped, or coerced into slavery just so a bunch of randy old perverts could dress them up in kinky fetish wear and parade them around in public in the most humiliating and objectifying manner possible before selling their sexual services to the highest bidders. It was vile and... somehow seeing it in person was also giving Isabelle a sexual thrill that she did not (yet) understand.
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What would it be like to be dressed like that and paraded around for all to see she wondered? What if it was her down there in the hot Texas sun, with her mane flying and her bells ringing, sun-kissed skin glistening with oil, sweat, and most likely arousal juices running down her inner thighs, knowing that she was about to receive a good shtupping? It had been so long since Isabelle had been shtupped. How often do these girls get shtupped, she wondered? Every day?
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She asked and was told that, no, that is reserved for shows and race days. Sex is a reward for good behavior and performance ponies are normally never permitted to have orgasms except at their owners' command. Every owner is different of course, but the Association guidelines are clear and most professional ranchers abide by them. Individual hobbyists are free to do as they please, but in order to compete in the professional events, one must at least appear to conform to the guidelines. In between breedings, the prancers were maintained at least somewhat aroused so when they did put on an appearance and were rewarded afterwards, they went off like a rocket. Isabelle looked at the big screen behind her on the wall again and noticed that the ponies really did seem happy and eager for their reward, which puzzled her. Shouldn't they be frightened and worried?
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"They're about to be taken against their will by strangers!" she thought.
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But they didn't seem the least bit worried or upset. Instead, Isabelle saw happy and eager young faces, smiling for the crowd as they pranced along like the cheerleaders that most of them probably once were - and probably should be if they hadn't been so cruelly and callously enslaved.
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"So no sex at all for weeks at a time?" she asked.
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"Oh no, the chariot is much in demand, so no more than a week at a time during the season. You seem interested in this and I haven't seen you here before. I'm friends with several of the women on the committee, would you like to take a day to come see the training stable? This year it's at Winston Stables, as Marcella Winston is the current committee head."
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Isabelle's initial emotional reaction was to be insulted and offended by this vile suggestion, but deep inside, something mysterious was working its way up from her subconscious. So instead she replied, "I would be delighted. In fact, I'm an orthopedic surgeon and have always been interested in the orthotic impact on ponies' lower legs and feet from the use of pony boots."
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"Now where had THAT come from?" she thought. She hated slavery and everything it stood for, especially the tragically cruel human pony business. She shouldn't even be here, these people were monsters... weren't they? Suddenly embarrassed and confused, she made up an excuse and scurried off with a rushed, "Excuse me, I think I see my friend over there."
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Her two seatmates watched her go and then turned to one another with a conspirational giggle. "Nice one, Tasha, you think she'll call?"
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Tasha smiled, "I don't know. These newbies are so easy to spot. They show up here armored in their outdated beliefs that slavery is evil, that we're sadistic monsters, that single women should be financially independent, and so on. I loved watching her face when the chariot came out as her expression went from disapproving schoolmarm to fascination and arousal. I think we may have a convert. If she's really an orthopedic surgeon with an interest in orthotics, we could definitely use someone like her on our boots committee as well as our medical rehabilitation committee. Who is she here with?" The two women turned to look around and spotted Isabelle chatting with Mary. "Ah, Mary Winters, it all becomes clear now. I wonder if prissy Miss Isabelle has any idea whatsoever that her friend owns a matched pair of trotters? Or that she sits on our twins committee and her hobby is perusing high school yearbooks looking for potential ponies? The fun part is training them, of course, but Mary enjoys the hunt for fresh talent and absolutely lives for seeing the looks on their faces the first time a pair of twins is stripped of their freedom and clothing, usually if they're in the same room together. If anyone can bring Miss Isabelle into the lifestyle, Mary can do it."
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"I disagree."
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"Oh?"
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"I think it's more fun if they're enslaved separately and the first time they see each other is slave naked."
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"Heh, there are so many fun ways to do that, aren't there?"
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Mary and Isabelle refreshed their mojitos and returned to their seats, where Mary greeted Tasha and Abigail warmly.
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"Oh Mary, there you are, we've just met your friend Isabelle here and discovered that she's interested in pony training."
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Isabelle was most certainly NOT interested in pony training, at least not doing it to other people and... absolutely and definitely certainly not having it done to her. That would be awful. Then she wondered briefly what it would be like and was appalled to discover that that she found the prospect somewhat appealing... but that would require being enslaved, and that would never happen, not in a million years. But still, wearing a leather harness, running freely down the track with no cares in the world other than her next shtupping? It seemed to speak to something deep within her that she had never considered before.
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Just then, the track announcer opened up with "Ladies and gentleman, your attention please, the parade begins! Pick... YOUR... CHAM-pi-o-o-ns!"
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All of the racing ponies were now on the track in serried rows of four as they trotted past the stands. The drivers were standing with their feet braced on the axle-bar and holding onto a u-shaped handle that stuck up from the front of the seat, Roman-chariot-style. "They do look like gladiators," Isabel thought. Isabella was mildly disgusted with herself for eagerly zooming in on the parade of muscular bare-chested ponies with the expensive high-powered binoculars that had mysteriously appeared in her hands as soon as the ponies began trotting past, but she couldn't stop herself, it just happened. These young men, many of whom appeared to be fresh out of high school, were being paraded around nude in front of thousands of spectators. Their long phalluses, and they ALL had big, throbbing cocks, many of them disgustingly and fascinatingly erect, were waving in the open air. These poor boys were probably only half her age and they were being forced to titillate horny free women with their shameful and arousing nudity. Their bodies, honed by hours of athletic training, their glistening pectorals and muscular thighs are all on brazen display. "It's awful," she thought, as she zoomed in on one powerful young man in particular. "What does he mean by 'pick your champions'? I assume he just means 'Place your bets?'" she asked.
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"Oh, well, it means that, too, dear. You want to make a bet right now on the race champion. If your pony wins the cup, you will then have a chance to spend some of your winnings on a breeding session with that particular pony, but you have to bet on him to win the race for the cup. You only need to put a $100 minimum bet on a pony to get an opportunity, you just need to check the box on the form. If your pony is doing well and you didn't bet enough to win the breeding session, you can always add more later. Whoever has the highest bet before the championship race wins the breeding session. On the other hand, if your pony is out of the running early on, then you lose the bet, but you still get to have a breeding session with your chosen champion if you're the one with the highest bet. Just because he didn't win doesn't mean that he's not YOUR chosen champion. So you will still have the chance to offer him a champion's reward."
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"Breeding session?"
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"Sex, dear."
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"Oh, and then he's forced to have sex with you?"
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"Forced? Not likely. As I mentioned before, performance ponies only get to have sex when they perform well. In this case, that means doing their best to win the race."
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Isabella was shocked. "Wait, what? Really? Do..." she remained focused on the pony that had caught her fancy. He had a sun bleached mane and a perfect golden tan from spending hours running naked in the hot sun. He appeared to be in his late teens, which was about half her own age. He also had perfectly-formed and sweat-glistened upper body muscles and seemed to handle the 140-lb load of driver and cart with perfect ease, "Do free women actually do that?"
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"Sure, happens all the time, I've done it, Tasha's done it, Mary?"
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Isabelle pulled back reluctantly from the binos and turned to look at her friend in amazement. Mary colored a bit and then, with a mysterious smile, responded "A lady never tells. But I will say that my husband and I have a couple of pony girls we're especially fond of."
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Isabelle was shocked that her good friend would engage in such a lewd and exploitative depravity.
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Although she had more questions, she quickly returned to viewing the parade, thinking she could ask Mary for more details later. At the sound of a horn, the ponies all stopped and turned slightly to be viewed by fans in the stands. The one that interested Isabelle stood tall and proud under the hot Texas sun, sweat streaking down his well-defined chest and abdomen. Isabelle again zoomed in and watched as his driver, a petite Asian girl with the build of a gymnast quickly spider-monkeyed up his back and, standing on the carrying poles, pointed over one muscular shoulder to someone in the stands. Like a gladiator standing before the emperor, he made a dignified bow toward whomever she was pointing at. Isabelle wondered why he didn't wave, then realized that his hands were secured to the poles and he couldn't wave at anyone even if he wanted to. The realization angered and frightened her a bit and it struck home that these young men - boys really - were just slaves. He couldn't even wave at someone in the stands. What other simple freedoms was he being deprived of?
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At another horn signal, the parade started up again and her chosen champion had now passed them and she zeroed in on his two perfectly-muscled glutes, noting the barbaric and completely unnecessary brand placed on his perfect left cheek as it flexed and unflexed with each powerful stride. He was so physically conditioned that she could see the muscle striations underneath his gleaming skin. What would it be like, she wondered, to drive a cart pulled by such a perfect specimen? To ride along a cart path with such a proud and powerful animal... PERSON... pulling the cart ahead of her, under her complete control? She began to very slowly subconsciously rub her thighs together under the skirt of her expensive and elegant sundress. Beside her and unnoticed by her, Abigail leaned back and looked over her hunched form at Mary, then nodded her head at Isabelle's unconscious display of arousal and waggled her eyebrows at her.
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Mary smiled a victorious and clever smile and said to Isabelle, "Izzy, perhaps you'd like to like to place a bet today?"
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"Oh, sure, umm, what about number 32? He looks very..."
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"Scrumptious?"
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"Uh, no, I meant that he looks like he has very strong thighs and is obviously very capable of handling... carts." Maybe every other woman in the stands was viewing him as a mere naked sex object, but Isabelle was determined to admire only his obvious athleticism.
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"Sure Izzie, that's an excellent reason, let's go to the betting booth." At the betting booth, they filled out a racing form and were asked if they wanted to pay cash or put it on credit. Isabelle, like many single professional women, was very concerned about running up credit card debt, but, even though she was in a room surrounded by men and women who earned a living enslaving young women for debt, she unhesitatingly bet $200 on number 32. When the attendant informed her that $2,000 was the minimum bet to check the box for this particular stallion, she again unhesitatingly agreed. She also learned that his name was “The HH Golden Hammer."
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"Golden Hammer," she thought, "what a perfect name for such an impressive beast... person, he's a person, cruelly and viciously enslaved for the amusement of others. And hot, really hot." At least she was trying to be honest with herself, "trying" being the operative word. However, she kept telling herself that she was just making a smart bet and had only checked the box for fun. To make the race more interesting. Not that she would ever follow through with such a thing.
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The first girls qualifying heat took place first. According to the race schedule, there would be four qualifying heats of 8 racers each for both the men and the women, with a championship round in the evening under the bright lights. Now that she wasn't being distracted by acres of masculine perfection, Isabelle was able to focus her attention on the female racing ponies. Isabelle was fascinated to see that, unlike the dressage ponies, who all looked like cheerleaders, the girl racers are actual athletes, with long muscular legs, small breasts, and devoid of the dehumanizing jewelry sported by the prancers. They were wearing make up though, and some of the bustier girls were wearing a sort of leather half-cup demi bra to keep the jiggling down. Mary handed her the binoculars again and she trained them on the girls' faces. "They're not ugly," she thought, but it was clear that looks aren't the main criteria for a racing pony.
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Like the prancers, though, they wore a diamond-patterned web of leather straps and a wide leather belt with their arms secured behind them in a snug single-sleeve leather binder that forced their breasts outward on display for the lewd admiration of the crowd. Since the fillies had their arms bound behind their backs, they bore the weight of the spars on their harness. It seemed inefficient to Isabelle, but she assumed that for female ponies at least, looks were of much greater importance than their ability to run fast. Isabelle was gratified to see that they were also wearing helmets now, which there weren't wearing during the parade. It reminded Isabelle that human pony racing remained a dangerous sport.
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"Do the drivers guide them by turning their heads?" she asked.
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"Yes and no, a quick flick of the reins tells the pony what the driver wants. The pony is focused solely on the track ahead of her and needs the driver to tell her when to change lanes, when to pick up speed, and when to hold back. In the early days of pony racing, larger bits were used and it was decided that they impeded air flow too much. The driver has a whip as well, but most drivers don't need it."
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"What happens if a rein gets caught on something? Isn't that likely to cause a torsional whiplash injury?" As a doctor who has spent many years dealing with accident trauma, Isabelle is only too aware of how easy it is for a person to get whiplash, especially a woman.
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"The reins are attached to the bit with a loop of soft aluminum wire that will snap off if they get yanked too hard. Same way they do it with nipple reins," Mary replied.
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"Nipple reins?" Izzie turned and stared at her, mouth open in astonishment, "Is that a thing?"
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Mary laughed cheerfully at her friend's astonished expression and replied, "Some owners like driving their pleasure ponies with nipple rings because they feel that they look prettier without the bits. You may have noticed that the chariot girls were all bitless. That's because the reins are threaded through the lead girl's nipple rings'"
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"Now that's just barbaric," thought Isabelle, quivering. The discussion made her want to pinch her nipples through her dress, but only because she was imagining how painful that would be, not because it was in any way sexy. I mean, imagine being controlled by such a delicate and intimate body part, wouldn't that be awful? Wouldn't it?
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Returning to her binoculars, Izzie noticed just how amazing the girls' thighs are. Not only were these women professional runners, they also pulled carts every day and their thighs were smooth masses of muscle. Not the ripped-and-defined muscles of the amazing stallions that she had seen, but clearly the result of hours upon hours of hard work in the hot sun. Izzie was only just noticing this about the girl ponies, as she had been distracted by Hammer during the parade and hadn't even glanced at the female racing ponies.
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Obviously, as a white-collar professional, Isabelle could never compete with the examples of youthful athletic perfection she saw out on the track. As a single woman, she needed to keep in shape to get a man, not that she has succeeded at finding one yet. But she did take spin class for her aerobic fitness and yoga for flexibility. Like many free women, she did her aerobics at a gym because it isn't not wise or safe for a free woman, especially an attractive single woman, to go running alone.
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When she mentioned her yoga training to her companions, Abigail responded that, "Slave yoga is great for general fitness since it's a combination of stretching and calisthenics"
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Somewhat offended, Izzie informed her prissily that she did real yoga, not some distorted version intended to indoctrinate women into sexual submissiveness.
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Her tart reply didn't offend Abigail at all and she responded nicely, "Maybe you should try it, see if you like it."
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"I don't think so. I'm sure I wouldn't like it."
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"Well, if you've never tried it, then you don't know. Why don't come to one of the yoga classes at my health club? I'll introduce to to some of my friends, maybe they'll be able to help you find a new boyfriend, wouldn't that be helpful?"
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Abigail had a point. She WAS here to make new friends and expand her social circle. Feeling brave, Izzie replied, "Well, I suppose just doing it once wouldn't hurt."
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As the ponies were lining up on a chalk line inscribed in the dirt, the group overheard two men standing behind them.
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A young and enthusiastic-sounding voice said, "Hey Dad, look at that one in the middle with the kick-ass Slavic cheekbones, number 17."
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"She's a good pony, did you pick her for the champion's reward?"
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"Nah, she'll do well, though, I've got $250 on her, if she wins it will cover my other bet. Besides, look at her cunt, it's nasty. Those lips stick out like someone just shoved a couple of strips of bacon up her twat and left them there."
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The older man chuckled a bit at his son's clever insult. "Agreed. Don't think it matters much, though, as long as they're tight. And these racers are very, very tight."
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Izzie was horrified at the way the poor girl is being objectified. Number 17 wasn't an unattractive girl and with her long powerful legs, she made a striking visual impression of raw female athletic power. "And she's probably a nice person, educated and intelligent," she thought. Someone who could have been making something of her life if she hadn't been caught up in the evil system of slavery and exploitation. "Instead, they only thing they care about is what is between her legs."
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The two men continued, "You pick a slow pony, too, son?"
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"Yup, that little Mexican girl on the left, she runs hard and puts in a respectable show, but she never wins. Reserve price is only $150. I think they may be feeding her people food or something. And hey, if she loses, I can always go home and bang Rosa."
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The father chuckled again, "Sounds like a plan, son." Then the two men walked away.
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Isabelle sat back in her seat, a little miffed. She had been starting to loosen up and have fun with this event and they had to come along and spoil it for her by reminding her that, to them and probably to most of the crowd below, these girls were simply living sex toys and not people.
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They watched the heat and Isabelle learned some more of the specifics of human pony racing, mainly that the strategy is jockeying for position without wearing out your pony during the first 3/4 of the race so that you can get in a good spot to begin the final sprint down the home stretch after coming around the 4/4 curve. That's when the pony's strength really comes into play because strength helps them conserve energy during the first 3/4 of the race, while speed especially mattered during the final straightaway. So racing ponies weren't just runners, they needed to have a balanced combination of sped, strength, and stamina.
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Hank's qualifying heat:
Isabelle picked up the binoculars again, feigning nonchalance, and watched the ponies being guided into position by their drivers. The stallions were different from the fillies in that they hold the cart's spars in their hands. They were still secured to the cart, but the ropes gave them sufficient range to move the cart about a bit. She watched closely as eight incredibly fit and almost entirely nude young men filed their carts out on the track. They must have been warming up out of view of the stands, because they were all glistening with sweat. Just like during the parade, they wore pony collars, harness belt, and pony boots. However, they had also added racing helmets with visors and snug speedos. Now their long penises were no longer dangling, but rather bunched in front of them in an impressive array of massive crotch bulges. "Why are they wearing shorts?" She whispered to Mary, not wanting anyone else to hear.
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"Safety reasons, Izzie, you don't want that thing flapping around near all that gear that can pinch or bind."
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"Ow," thought Isabelle, flinching. Out loud she commented, "I guess that would be bad."
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"Don't worry, they take them off after the race, so you can admire their penises then."
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Izzie frowned at her, "I wasn't thinking that at all."
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"Of course not," Mary replied insincerely, smiling at her blushing friend.
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Turning back the the track, Izzie noticed that there was a bit of jostling as the eight grim-faced stallions moved up to the start position. Isabelle was beginning to get caught up in the excitement again, seeing all these powerful young men preparing to do battle for the prize. "They're a bit unruly, aren't they?" She asked. She hadn't seen that kind of behavior from the fillies and this was not how she expected slaves to act.
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"Yeah," replied Abigail, "This is one of the most dangerous parts of the race, they're all hyped up and energized, boiling with testosterone, and their ankles aren't hobbled. That means they can kick each other right now and pony hooves are extremely sharp. Plus, they've all raced each other before and some of them carry grudges."
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"Oh, well I hope we don't see some kind of fight."
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Abby chuckled in return. "Believe me, a lot of people in this crowd are hoping for the exact opposite."
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"Well I don't want anyone to get hurt, so I'm hoping they don't" She said disapprovingly as she dropped back down behind her binos just before the starter pistol fired.
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There are moments in a person's life when they experience something entirely new that affects them permanently, something that they did not expect but, once having seen it, they cannot un-see it. For Doctor Isabelle Cohen, this became such a moment. One moment she was looking at a row of beautiful male physical specimens, leaning forward between the poles of their sulkies. She could see the looks of focused determination on their faces beneath their visored helmets and they were breathing in deep steady rhythms, storing oxygen for the opening sprint. Then it happened... the starter pistol fired, and eight powerful stallions flexed their chests and shoulders and leaped forward as one.
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She almost fumbled the binos and gasped, falling back into her seat. "Oh my!" she exclaimed, before quickly bringing the binoculars back up and leaning forward. Like with the female ponies, the eight carts rapidly converged toward the inner fence line, jockeying for the inner lane around the curve. Hammer had darted out in front of the others from his position in the middle of the row and claimed the front of the line rounding the curve. Now that they were racing away from the crowd, Isabelle could see every well-defined muscle in his back and... lower back... and below that as he charged to the head of the line. He truly was a magnificent specimen. If he had been the model for one of her medical textbooks, she would have been oh so much more attentive in class. "Or perhaps less attentive," she thought, giggling to herself. "I might not even have graduated."
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The stallions rounded the second quarter and plunged headlong into the back stretch. Isabelle could see Hammer's driver guiding him with the reins as she kept glancing backward at the other ponies jockeying for position. Her brightly colored racing silks fluttered in the breeze as she seemed to float along behind the surging stallion. In contrast to the tremendous burst of speed Hammer had displayed at the beginning of the race, he seemed to be coasting along, his legs pumping rhythmically as he shot down the back straightaway.
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"They're just coasting," said Mary from behind her own binoculars. "This is Hammer's race to lose, none of these other stallions can touch him. He'll be racing on the national circuit next year."
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Again the pack tightened up as they rounded the 3/4 turn, with many of the carts pulling alongside one another two by two. One pony suddenly stumbled and Isabelle's throat caught as he veered away from the pack. She started following the stumbling racer with her binoculars, her physician's mind beginning to gear up. "I hope he's..." her thought was disrupted by a shout from the crowd.
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"And there he goes!" screamed the announcer. As the pack rounded the fourth and final turn, the sulkies immediately began to fan out and race toward the finish line, hooves flashing as they ran flat out, holding nothing back. Isabelle was immediately concerned for Hammer, "What if someone passes him., he was too slow in the back part of the track, he let them get too close..." Here fears were immediately laid to rest as the Golden Hammer simply drifted away from the lesser stallions and raced across the finish line alone, several cart lengths ahead of the nearest challenger.
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Isabelle leaned back in her seat, breathing heavily as if she had been the one racing.
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"Exciting, isn't it?" Mary said in her ear. Isabelle turned to her friend with a look of astonishment on her face.
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"Oh yes, I didn't think I was going to enjoy it, but this is amazing! Thank you so much for inviting me!"
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"I thought you'd have fun, Izzie," Mary replied with a secretive smile, noting her friend's flushed appearance.
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"Yes, I'm having lots of fun. Oh hey, umm... should I get us some snacks while we wait for the next race? I'll be right back!" She then immediately rushed off to the betting booth to check on her bet.
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When she handed her ticket to the clerk, he ran it under the scanner and said, "Max bet is now $2,100 for the champion's reward for this particular pony, would you like to top that up?"
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Isabelle frowned. Someone else was trying to steal her man from her and she didn't like it one bit. "Umm, sure, can we make it $2,500?"
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"Of course, there you go." Slipping the new betting slip in her purse, she returned to her seat. Nobody said anything to her about the fact that she hadn't brought back any snacks.
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During the next few races, Izzie's friends reminded her to return to the voting booth from time to time and see if anyone else who had checked the "Breed me" box had placed a higher bet. She assured her companions that she had no need to do so, as she couldn't possibly participate in such a lewd and shameful activity. Then she kept making up excuses to pop up to the betting booth periodically and put $100 on random ponies so she could check the status of the champion's reward auction. She held those other betting slips out in the open, while hiding her shameful secret betting slip that kept getting bigger and bigger as the afternoon went on. Someone was playing the same game with her, one-upping her by the minimum bet of $100 and each time she increased her own bet by $400.
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When Isabelle went to check on her bet once again, Tasha turned and smiled at her back as the flustered woman walked away. "Have you ever seen such a roaring case of Stallion Fever? Should we call a doctor?"
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The others giggled knowingly. "Doctor, heal thyself!"
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By the end of the day, she's in it for $10,000. Once when the opposing bettor topped her bet while she was still at the booth, she glanced down the row of betting booths and noticed an obese woman with too much make up and WAY too much big hair (even for Texas) wearing a pink tracksuit walking away from a different booth. Something deep inside her bubbled up from the darkness in the hidden part of her soul. "My rival," it snarled, and she immediately increased her bet after the woman walked... well, stumbled away from the booths. "It's my money and I can do what I want with it," she told herself, "I'm just enjoying the races, that's all. They're going to run anyway, so I'm not actually participating in the enslavement and exploitation of my fellow human beings." Her behavior mystified her and she couldn't explain why she was doing it. She kept telling herself that it was all in good fun and she has no intention of following through with the breeding session. It's just to make the races more exciting, that's all. Her companions keep giving each other knowing smiles behind her back while pretending to be completely unaware of how hot and flustered she was getting.
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Eventually, the final race for the male ponies was coming up. The championship heat for female ponies had already passed, but Isabelle paid it no mind, as she was "getting a snack." Breathless with anticipation, she ran to her seat and plunged into it. This was it, she was going to see him in action again! It was thrilling and yet somehow tainted by the fact that she was participating in the de-humanization of a perfect specimen of masculine perfection. At Mary's urging, she had looked up the pony page of this paragon of masculinity on his owner's - how DARE someone claim ownership of such a perfect human being - website and basked in the sheer fabulousness of the man. He was a perfect specimen - the perfect combination of animalistic physical power combined with intellectual power. The website made a point of highlighting the academic accomplishments that he had achieved while enslaved by their vicious system of servitude - credits in Greek and French, an associate's degree in agricultural economics (slavery), and a paralegal certificate in slavery law... all while an enslaved person for the past three years. Apparently racing ponies have a lot of time on their hands sitting alone in their stalls and Hammer has used his time very productively. What would take a normal free college student - because college students were normally and naturally free - 5 years to accomplish, he had mastered in 3 years. It was a remarkable testament to his willingness to rise up against slavery and overcome it. It made her hot, just thinking about it.
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On the website, Isabelle discovered a picture of Hank rounding the 4/4 curve, eyes on the prize, perfect pectorals tensed, every perfect pectoral fiber perfectly outlined in his... perfect pectorals. She was entranced and immediately set it as the background on her phone. That way, even though she had zero intention of going through with this despicable and immoral "breeding" activity, she would have a nice souvenir of the race.
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Championship heat:
The championship heat passed in a blur for Isabelle as she fidgeted and twitched in her seat. He was going to win! He was going to win and she would be his prize and give him his champion's reward! She just KNEW it would come true. And then it did! Oops.
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She sat there in shock as the cheering died down. Mary looked at her in concern and then made a motion to her friends not to say anything. "Isabelle, honey, why don't you go cash your bets and we can meet out on the concourse?"
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"Oh, um, sure, why don't I do that? Some of these tickets must be worth something..." She mumbled as she hustled off to join the lines at the betting booths.
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While waiting to cash her ticket, she noticed the pink tracksuit lady arguing furiously with the attendant at her booth and Isabelle smiled, feeling a small thrill of victory running through her.
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-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

[jeepster]

Nice setup now to the interesting part!

[ZeeChromosome]

Working on Part Two. Apologies for the delay, the transition between Part One and Part Two was mostly implied in my rough draft and it suddenly ballooned as I began to actually write it out. I think it's fun to write though, so there's that!
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Please let me know what you like or hate about the first part. I'm trying to portray Isabelle as falling into a lust-fueled haze without quite losing control... yet.
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Warning, Part Two is seriously raunchy.
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Not that there's anything wrong with that.
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Zee!

[jeepster]

Like the way she is being drawn into the web!

[ZeeChromosome]

Like the way she is being drawn into the web!

Thanks, Jeepster. I really appreciate your post.
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Wait until you see the next few segments and see someone else being drawn into a web of fun-evil slavery!
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This is literally my second posted story and I'm trying to do something that real authors often struggle with - I'm trying to portray my heroine as being drawn inexorably into a decision that she would normally desperately avoid. So I'm trying to depict her decisions as not entirely her own. She is drawn to it... but she is also guided into it.
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I want this to be a fun-evil slaver story and not an evil-evil slaver story. I've discussed this exact distinction with Carl and Smith offline and we've had a lot of fun with it... because fun-evil is fun.
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Thanks again for your support!
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Zee

[Mr. Smith]

I really enjoyed how Isabelle caught "Stallion Fevor" in the story followed by the doctor cure thyself comment. Is the cure adminstered via a shot of some kind? This story has all sorts of potential for the good doctor to humiliate herself in extremely embarrasing ways. I hope you fully explore these options.

[ZeeChromosome]

Is the cure administered via a shot of some kind?

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Funny you should mention that... yes. It's an all-organic injection of natural proteins and liquids. I hear it's also very healthy to ingest orally.
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Side effects may include swelling for about 9 1/2 months followed by mild cramping sensations and child support.
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Zee