Prenup 03: Mustangs

[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 involved in slave business operations. This is strictly a FANTASY—in reality, informed consent is always mandatory for any sexual interaction.)

(This series of stories explores the permutations of a special form of prenuptial agreement in this universe, one where—to ensure monogamy—the two partners agree that whichever one engages in sex without prior approval of the other must automatically become the Free In Name Only (FINO) sexual slave of his/her spouse for a five year period. In addition to my stories on the Prenup concept, Mr. Smith has written several tales that belong in the same series, under the title “Captured, Collared, and Trained.”)

(Julie or “Rosebud” Reese’s viewpoint)

I owe so much to my favorite shrink, Dr. Nikki Sheldon, that I let her talk me into writing down what happened to me, even though some of it was really humiliating. She’s convinced me that she needs to collect the experiences of a large number of couples who have added the recently-fashionable “loyalty prenup” to their marriage arrangements. So, please try not to judge me TOO harshly, ‘kay?

I met my future husband/master, Don Reese, when we were both attending SMU. It’s the usual sickeningly-sweet tale (tail?) of a football stud and a college cheerleader, only our romance was slightly different because, well, in the past several decades cheerleaders have become different at a lot of Texas colleges and universities. The key thing to understand is that, inspired by the legalization of slavery, some colleges came up with a new form of cheerleading. In return for lavish scholarship help, some of the best-looking (pardon my bragging) young women agree to serve for two years on their college’s Pony Girl Team. That’s right, imagine up to a dozen hot young women (juniors and seniors in college, therefore well over 18 years of age) in peak physical condition who are trained to serve as nearly-naked human horses (stripped, mouth-bitted, strapped into tight harnesses and revealing bustiers, with “horsetails” protruding from their butts while they are used to tow small carts around football fields during big games). In most colleges I know of, this means that, as a minimum, the pony girls agree to provide sexual services to key players on the team; such service certainly motivates high performance by the players. Much more quietly, of course, some girls’ contracts agree that they will also “entertain” wealthy alumni or donors in return for extra financial consideration—not “pocket money” but “crotch rocket” money.

To get around any accusations of public nudity or prostitution, the varsity pony girls all enter into Free In Name Only (FINO) contracts that obligate them to perform as if they were actual slaves, except that on non-game days they are allowed ample time wearing clothes and un-harnessed to study and attend classes. After all, the entire reason for joining the pony team is to help us pay for an education. (Well, to be honest it’s a turn-on to play pony slave in front of thousands of cheering fans, but no girl wants to admit that!)

Pony girl usage quickly spread to colleges and universities. At the University of Oklahoma twelve beautiful naked pony girl coeds with bells jingling from their pierced nipples (on pert, bouncing boobs) replaced the two horses that once pulled the famed Sooner Schooner onto the field during football games and other events. USC followed suit, replacing Traveler, the noble white horse with a Trojan warrior astride, with twelve naked pony girls, each with red plumes on her head and matching tail plumes pulling a chariot carrying a Trojan warrior. Soon, dating a Sooner Schooner or a Trojan chariot pony girl held more prestige on campus than dating a conventional cheerleader, much to the derision of the cheerleaders experiencing their loss in status. Many schools quickly incorporated pony girls into school programs whenever possible due to their popularity both on and off campus (or should that be on their hooves or knees?)

Major colleges and universities saw the advantage of adding pony girl racing and dressage competitions to college sports with the SEC and Big 12 power five conferences leading the way followed by the ACC and Big 10 the following year. Eventually the PAC 12 saw the handwriting on the wall and added pony girl sporting events. These schools saw pony girl sports as a way to counter the significant Title IV scholarship imbalance caused by football. The NCAA soon designed a standard FINO contract for use in lieu of traditional scholarships that were the equivalent of a scholarship for Title IV calculations.

Some free women even make a career out of this exotic form of cheerleading, either as pony girls for professional “ball” teams (now there’s an interesting double-entendre) or even in the summer Olympics, where pony girl teams began as an exhibition. In public, the pony girls, both varsity and JV, always wear “Lone Ranger” domino masks on their faces, but their identity is usually an open secret on campus. The Texas Cowboys Pony Girl calendar often sells better than the swimsuit edition of a certain sports magazine. Let’s not even get into the “JV Pony Girls” who are actual slaves, training alongside the varsity to substitute both on the field and when servicing some (but not all; sometimes the varsity had to suck cock too) of the fat cat donors to the University. In college, at least, I empathized with the poor JVs, as for them it was a harsh reality of slavery rather than a naughty thrill.
*****
At SMU, the pony girl team is known as the Mustangs. Imagine prancing, almost-but-not-quite-nekkid, bound tightly by leather tack in a precision team while your boobs and butt bounce and thousands of spectators cheer. Those spectators often displayed bulging trousers that seemed to indicate how much each male (and sometimes female) spectator wanted to “break in” his/her choice of the sexiest “slave” pony in the team. Truth to tell, I loved showing off. Yeah, sometimes, when I was bound on my knees trying to lick an erection out of a drunk but wealthy alumnus, being a FINO pony literally sucked. Most of the time, however, I like the other girls regarded thus as an opportunity to indulge our exhibitionist and submissive tendencies in a “wholesome” environment that used school spirit as a means to justify what would otherwise be considered immoral and lascivious behavior. Where else could a growing young woman get all the sex she wanted without being condemned for it? I’d venture to guess that the average collegiate pony girl gets more inches of rigid cock inside her during her junior and senior years than many full-time slave whores get in a five-year indenture, all while being absolved from the accusation of being a willing slut. Throw me in that briar patch.

That’s how I met the love of my life, Don, and my five best friends forever, my fellow pony teammates from the TCU class of ’32. Even now, fourteen years after we graduated and got married, Don will often refer to me as “Rosebud,” my pony name. And yes, that means what you think it means—the only thing I loved more in college than sucking and fucking his gargantuan prick was feeling that shaft (suitably lubed, of course), pounding my well-stretched butthole over and over while I begged him to ream me harder and pound the s___ out of me! Even after birthing two kids caused me to gain a few pounds, I still lubricate instantly at the thought of role-playing as his submissive pony slut—three holes, no waiting. A few times he has even used my ripe but still-taut body as a “sweetener” to seal a business deal (even though I was actually free and not enslaved). The guy (or occasionally gal) who in return for a business agreement gets to use my body enjoys me, and for days thereafter Don and I fuck like Texas jack rabbits at the thought of how low I had been laid—and I do mean laid!
*****
If you’ve read this far, you may be wondering why we would bother with the FINO Prenup agreement before marriage, when we still want to tear each other’s clothes off whenever we’re alone and I’m more than happy to play pony sex fiend any time he wants to dominate me or lend me to someone else. The problem was that Don didn’t like the idea of his “horny slut gettin’ some on the side,” without his permission (and usually his opportunity to enjoy the spectacle of my submission, ostensibly at his orders.) I felt much the same way—not really jealous, but unhappy if his erections were wasted on someone else. Jism doesn’t really taste very good, but the submissive in me wanted to be the one on her knees, sucking my husband off. For a while after I gave birth to our two boys, Slim and David, I was too busy changing diapers to contemplate any kind of bed activity other than exhausted sleep. But my husband knew that my libido would eventually reappear, so once the boys were potty-trained he began to remind me regularly that I was not allowed to stray without his advance permission (and usually specific instructions, often including a requirement that I film my submission.) Just the knowledge that he enjoyed pimpin’ me out to business acquaintances turned me on for a while, but in my early thirties my horniness went into mega-overload, especially after I worked myself back down to my college pony girl screwing form. Besides, two of my BFFs—Krystal (“Garnet”) and Leticia (“Black Beauty”)—made me really envious. Not only did they have no children (I love my boys, but they do put limits on my love life), but they had some kind of “hotwife” thing going on with their husbands, permitting them to cruise around every weekend and pick up the kind of young studs we all used to play with in college. On more than one occasion, Leticia and Krystal had been the 18th birthday presents for young men in their area, although they usually did this in the privacy of a motel room.

OK, my husband had cheerfully “sold” me to three business contacts, but my two hot wife friends, to hear them tell it, were getting strange dick by the yard, just as when we were back in college. Garnet and Beauty even bragged about how they had found a black-market source for our dirty little secret on the Pony Girl Team—horny juice! I still remember fondly how the team veterinarian used to give us carefully-measured injections of hormones, aka “horny juice,” during summer training and then before game weekends. As the name implies, that stuff made us all super-excited, literally dripping between our thighs in a way that enhanced the entire experience of exhibiting (and later submitting) ourselves to the guys. Not to mention, my breasts had grown almost a full cup size under the influence of that hormonal mix while making my nipples extremely sensitive, a common side-effect of horny juice. Now, years later, the idea that I could relive that experience of being an aroused sex toy was as tempting as alcohol is to a recovering alcoholic.

As a six-foot tall African-American woman, Black Beauty/BB, as you might imagine, had always had an impressive pair of nose cones—I once saw the label on one of her bras that read “GG,” which I suggested was a more appropriate nickname than “BB”—and I couldn’t help noticing that THIS year, in her thirties, Garnett seemed to have developed a chest of the same extra-large caliber, if you know what I mean. [Why do I care about breast size? Because most guys and especially my Don are fixated on the size of women’s boobs—he had always enjoyed groping the C cups I had grown (thanks, horny juice!) in college, and couldn’t keep his eyes (or hands) off my breasts when pregnancy caused them to grow even larger. My girls had been overly sensitive when I was lactating, but afterwards they earned me even more loving attention than my husband had previously given me. Not to mention all the husbands starin’ at BB’s “breastworks” whenever we got together socially would make any girl wistful and insecure. Good thing Letty had married Shamal, who as Peruna XXX (a name applied originally to a series of mascot horses but later to muscular pony boys, each of whom could have posed as the next Black Panther) had personified the SMU mascot for several years—that personification involved him mastering and mounting Black Beauty as the floor show for some alumni donor conferences! Only a physically powerful woman built on a heroic scale could have accommodated Shamal’s massive shaft pistoning in and out of her openings at top speed, a shaft that more than lived up to the racial stereotypes about how well-endowed African American males are.]
If you’re wondering, I and my other best friends couldn’t help being envious of this lascivious hot wife lifestyle as acted out by Letty and Krystal, even though we still avoided straying from our marital beds. I only found out later that our own husbands ALSO wanted to have hot wives, hoping to return to the college years where all six women were sometimes willing to share their boyfriends with the rest of the pony team, producing an orgy that smelled not only of semen but also of leather.

So much for background; I tell you all of this to explain why I allowed Garnett and BB to persuade Maria (“Chocolate”) and me to engage in what, in retrospect, was extremely risky behavior. (My boys were away for the summer with their grandparents, so for once I was free to indulge myself.) The two hot wives dared us to let them inject us with black-market horny juice and then go for a girls’ night out at the famous Breeding Barn Café. If you’ve never heard of it, the Breeding Barn is in two parts. The main arena is a high-end restaurant where the “floor show,” provided on contract by various pony farms, consists of incredible-endowed pony boy slaves publicly debauching cute-but-helpless pony girls, the latter being bent over and tied to mounting stands. The second portion is a sort of pony bordello, where (for a hefty fee) the guests can rent the various pony girls for hour-long sessions of ramming cocks (or, for female guests, strap-ons) into various openings. During the daytime, rumor has it that some free women willingly masquerade as pony girls just to get a nooner from dominant men, usually (but not always) including their own husbands.

Anyway, Chocolate and I were hopped up by the prospect of an evening of naughty fun as we watched flashbacks to our own wild youth; the horny juice made us even more aroused. (I had been sort of honest with my hubby, obtaining his permission to take the injections and play with my friends, but I had no idea how far this would go. I think Chocolate had similarly informed José, but neither of us expected sex with slaves or strangers, either of which might lead our husbands to invoke the FINO prenup agreements.)

If I had been cold sober I would have been suspicious of what happened that evening—but I was nowhere near sober. When we arrived at the Breeding Barn in an Uber, with horny juice and tequila already coursing through our veins and visions of sugar cocks dancing in our heads, the club just “happened” to be running a door prize contest. To enter the contest required only a nominal fee and signing a waiver not to hold the Barn liable for any consequences. The prize? Two lucky guests would get the “opportunity” to pretend to be pony boys or girls for the night, tied down and fucked senseless in the bordello or the nightclub. Given that my horny little mind was already reliving my glory years as a slutty pony girl (redundancy alert!) on the college team, I was all in favor of entering the contest.

I imagine that few readers will be surprised at the outcome—not only did Chocolate and I win this contest (quelle surprise!), but the other girls were somehow permitted to come backstage with us, happily strapping us into harnesses, nipple-clamped bells, bits, bridles & butt-plug tails, with bustiers that held our bobbing boobs up on display, making us look more like Hucows than pony girls. At first, BB and Garnett claimed to be envious of our good fortune in winning the lottery so that we could relive fun times on the team. Before I had time to feel alarmed, I was completely gagged and helpless while BB and Garnett revved us up, ordering us around, spanking our butts and breasts, and fondling all our erogenous zones to arouse us to the max. And THEN Black Beauty, grinning evilly, pulled out an unlabeled tube with a pastry brush. When I felt renewed wetness on my labia and clit, I looked a question at my ebony friend, who reassured me, “It’s only liquid horny juice, easily absorbed on contact—trust me, this will make your orgasms even better than ever.” Oh, crap, I thought—now I really was lost! I could feel any remaining control ebb from my increasingly-overcharged body.

I ended up gagged and kitted out as a pony girl, bent over and bound to a sturdy metal mounting platform in one of the many “pony girl stalls” provided by the Breeding Barn. At first, I was aroused to the dripping point and just groaned and flexed happily as several anonymous sperm donors used my two lower openings, happily spanking my butt and describing me in degrading terms such as “pony slut,” “ass whore,” “cock-hungry bitch” and the like—all of which, I must confess with a blush, described me perfectly at that moment. In the intermissions between semen emissions, however, I felt increasingly guilty and remorseful. I had really broken my Prenup with Don, and I determined that, tomorrow, I would have to confess to him on my knees. I foresaw five years as his FINO bitch, but from my point of view that was hardly a punishment. I just didn’t want to hurt or disappoint my man.
*****
I was in this strange half-guilty, half-horny stage when I became aware that two guys were standing right in front of my head, and the manner in which they were unzipping their flies suggested that I was about to “give head” to both of them. I couldn’t really see their faces, but I certainly recognized those dicks! I’ve already indicated that BB’s husband Shamal had fulfilled (hell, overflowed!) the role of the mascot Black Stallion for several years; I had only rarely been allowed to service him in college, but my mouth began salivating at the sight of that monstrous sword. Next to him was the equally-impressive, if much lighter colored, penis I had occasionally seen shafting my BFF Garnett in pony girl orgies—it belonged to Stan, her (ex-defensive lineman) husband.

If I had any doubts about the likelihood of my winning this door prize (or should that be whore prize?) honestly, those doubts went out the window when I heard Shamal’s rumbling bass voice.

“In case you’re worried,” he said as he extracted my bitt only to insert a gag that sheathed my teeth and held my mouth wide open, “this wasn’t Letty’s idea to have you win the door prize—all six of the guys want to go back to the good ‘ol days of gang-banging our favorite pony girls, and it took a long time to convince Letty and Garnett that this was the best way to go about it without offending anyone’s morality. The six of us guys and occasionally those two gals have wanted to get ALL of our ladies into the hot wife/FINO slave swinging scene, but for a while we didn’t know how to approach the idea without upsetting the other four ladies. So, we came up with the horny juice and door prize to get you over the hump and back to humping! Nobody’s trying to humiliate, blackmail, or punish you, but now that you’ve played pony girl with a couple of random strangers, you’re technically breaching the prenup agreement with your husbands and it’s too late to go back to monogamy-as-usual. Time to relax and let your husband-slash-master spread pollen as well as thighs while you enjoy the FINO experience on your knees, right?” He gazed searchingly into my eyes until I slowly nodded agreement. The thought that my darling husband had intended me to end up on that breeding bench made it all easier to justify in my confused and aroused mind.

Next thing I knew, I was gagging on a mouthful of Big Black Cock, which Shamal casually instructed me to lubricate his huge shaft so it was “slicker ‘n a West Texas county road in an August shower” in preparation for further penetrations.

The submissive in me really enjoyed licking, sucking, and half-swallowing that monster, but just as I got into a good rhythm, he abruptly pulled it out and moved around to my rear, which felt alarmingly exposed at that moment. I didn’t have time to think about that, though, because after allowing me to take two frantic breaths, Stan reoccupied my mouth and my attention. Objectively speaking, he MAY have been smaller than Shamal, but not so’s I could really notice. I had to focus on breathing around and in between thrusts from that monster.

Just as I adjusted to my new task, I felt a pair of rough hands pry my buttocks apart, then with a single thrust WHOOSH Shamal’s magic joy stick fully occupied my (thankfully well-lubricated) pussy. Those hands grabbed hold of my lily-white cheeks, fingering the Longhorn brand embossed deeply into my left buttock from when I graded Choice Plus upon entry into the pony girl team, back between my sophomore and junior years in college. That brought back some fun memories, but those hands really dug into my skin and began SLAMMING in and out of me. Mmmh—slut heaven. I love my husband, but the pony girl in me really enjoyed being mastered and stuffed like that, the helpless sex toy of two prodigiously over-endowed studs.

Too bad it couldn’t last. First, I felt a steady tugging on my pony tail, extracting the plug from the part of my anatomy that gave me my pony name (Think about it—what part of a pony girl might be nicknamed Rosebud?) Then someone squeezed what felt like a quart of water-soluble lubricant up my Khyber Pass. That was the final warning before that magnificent dick (I couldn’t see it, but it had to be Shamal/Peruna’s; I sure as hell had never had a bigger dong inside me!) wedged its way past my winking sphincter. Good thing he had installed that ring gag on my mouth, or I would have bitten Stan’s substantial rod off in surprise as I went in seconds from a forlorn sense of emptiness to ‘my cock drought is over!’ Thank heavens Shamal had enough human kindness to pause after the wide head of his penis breached me, but 30 seconds later he started pushing in a little, withdrawing slightly, and then repeating the cycle as he worked that massive intruder up my violated yet thrilled butt. Before I knew it, I felt the cold metal oval of his buckle pressed into my lower back, and we were off to the races. These two guys knew my slutty disposition well, alternating their deep exploration of my colon and throat. I focused on breathing while luxuriating in the submissive, fully-occupied/possessed joy that only a college pony girl slut can really appreciate.

I don’t know how long this pumping went on, nor even how many orgasms ripped through my body that evening, but the answer must have been “a hell of a long time” and “a lot.” When I finally came back down to earth, someone was gently untying me from that breeding bench while Black Beauty lovingly squirted water into my parched mouth. I almost choked on the water when I felt a slender finger protruding past my nickname into my large colon, but BB told me to hush, reminding me that, in our college pony days, we often got treated with Z’s magic elixir, one of the Zee Chromosome family of Medications for the Sexually Stretched. While nothing could completely restore my rosebud to its decades-past state of anal virginity, both I and slave society could never have survived without these magic potions. A few minutes later, I felt much better (read hornier) down there, encouraging me to dream of going for even more pony fucking, I mean gusto.
*****
Seeing the returning gleam in my eyes Black Beauty offered an insidious image that she knew would renew (assuming it had even waned) my submissive sex drive. “Now that you’re warmed up, I wonder if you’d like to try another little adventure?” She inquired, and then continued without pause. “At dinner time, I remember you squirming and grinning when we watched the floor show, especially seein’ that pony boy stallion from the Spinning Wheel Ranch rutting into a pony girl on stage. You remember the young guy I’m talking about—how’d you like to feel that monster dick pounding into your tight little twat, Rosebud? Chocolate has already signed up to go on stage with you.”

High on horny juice and submissive sex, I eagerly nodded agreement without thinking about what I had signed up for. It’s one thing to play horny pony in a secluded stall—really a bondage dungeon—with a group of your friends who are re-creating out sordid college past. Now, however, I had agreed to be tied to a breeding frame and thoroughly ravaged by an unknown (to me) slave guy while dozens of my free peers ate their dinners and commented upon my downfall. Yes, I would still have a mask over my eyes, but all of my friends would recall my appearance from college, and my identity would be confirmed when Black Beauty led me out to be completely and thoroughly fucked senseless BY A SLAVE in public—not to mention Chocolate, who would be tied down and shafted next to me, was equally-recognizable by many of our friends.

My heart was beating like a trip-hammer as I was led out onto the stage. I wasn’t a lamb to the slaughter, but I certainly did feel like a helpless animal being staked out as bait to attract hungry wild predators. That feeling only increased when, with a firm downward pull on my bridle, I was bent at the waist and bound tightly to a mounting frame; my head was now at waist height for any male to invade my ring-gagged face, while my booted legs were tied wide apart on my ankles. Although BB had re-inserted my pony tail, I was acutely aware that my taut and tattooed tushie was spread wide and thrust out behind me, practically begging for every male in the vast auditorium to plunder my visibly-moist pony pussy. I nervously shifted my weight back and forth between my legs, tugging in vain against my ankle ties, until it occurred to me that this shifting only INCREASED the impression that my rear end was begging to be invaded—which may have been true, but wasn’t exactly the message I wanted to send in a room filled with hundreds of my peers!

I noticed a number of video cameras aimed at me, and recalled with a further shiver the pornographic closeups that, earlier that evening, had appeared on large video screens throughout the hall. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Chocolate restrained on a rack similar to mine, although my head was towards her legs and vice versa; a rotating portion of the stage would allow the audience to view our pornographic pony procreation rituals from every angle.

For a moment, my view was obscured by the young, muscular, VERY well-endowed slave stallion known only as “Stud.” Although his hands appeared to be free, he was otherwise kitted out as a pony boy. I recalled from his earlier floor show that he, like other stallions performing at the Breeding Barn, had a rope tied across his back to his two elbows, leaving his forearms and hands free to grasp and fondle his female prey (hey! That’s me!) as he mounted her/them. I shivered at the thought of such a massively-protruding proboscis invading my pony pussy, however aroused I might be at the time.

Focus, Rosebud! The stallion smiling down at me had by this time advanced until his warm flesh filled my mouth and protruded into my upper throat. As he pumped in and out, his dick continued to swell to seemingly-impossible dimensions. My tongue bathed every inch it could reach, and I tasted a few hints of precum.

I’d forgotten, however, that this was simply the warm-up act to the mastering for which I had volunteered. Just as I began to anticipate swallowing his load, Stud jerked that all-day super-sucker (with the juicy white filling) out of my mouth and moved around to my rear.

I could no longer see my latest lover/master, but what I saw in the audience drove him out of my mind, at least for a moment. As the stage slowly rotated, my HUSBAND DON and CHOCOLATE’S HUSBAND JOSE suddenly came into view, sitting at a table almost at ringside! They were both grinning at me, and Don was gleefully dangling the slave collar, engraved with my (pony) name, that we used when playing master and slave.

The message was clear and I had no defense—I was being publicly violated by a slave, which definitely placed ME in violation of our prenup agreement, which in turn meant that I would spend the next five years as his FINO slave. Oh, well, there could be worse outcomes. My pussy throbbed in anticipation of eagerly dropping to my knees whenever he ordered me to “Suck dick, Slut.” On the positive side, I needn’t nerve myself to confess to him because he already knew. On the negative side, of course, he intended to lead me out of the Breeding Barn butt naked, collared, bound, and leaking manly fluids from all my openings with my slavery beginning tonight. I repeat, throw me in that briar patch!

Just as I reached that conclusion, I felt two rough hands goosing my rear and spreading my cheeks, after which Stud’s phenomenal spear SLAMMED in two thrusts deep into my pussy. Be careful what you wish for!—but I loved it. I would have been happier to have my new Master Don take possession of me like that, on public (or is that pubic?) display, but Stud was a great substitute. Wow. Maybe I could persuade Don to bring me back here some evening and help this stallion spit-roast his slut?

Meanwhile, I tried to develop a mental “to do” list for tomorrow morning—or whenever Don took a break from ravaging his new FINO slave.
First, make an appointment with Dr. Nikki; we had given her a retainer when she advised us before signing our prenup, but now I would need a “slave shrink” to serve as my guardian ad litem.

Second, I would have to arrange with Nikki and my new lord-and-master as to when I would in-process a slave market to get my FINO entered into the national slave data base. Of course, the submissive wannabe slave in me was already thrilled by the thought of having Master Don tow me (as his nude and bound slave) on a leash into the market, order me to my knees, and tie me down on display for slave grading.

Third, hell, I might as well ask Black Beauty to hook me up with her supplier for bootleg Horny Juice. “Cum” to think of it, we could get the stuff legally if I were a FINO slave, although I imagine seeing a slave veterinarian for the prescription would be a further humiliation. If I was gonna be a stay-at-home slut for five years, why not enjoy myself to the fullest?

Ouch! My thoughts were distracted by Stud roughly jerking the pony tail plug out of my rectum; a moment later the superb flesh pole that had been thrilling my birth canal was forced past my rectum. Thank heavens that (1) his dick was well-lubricated by my thrilled pony cunt and (2) he paused, with the head of his penis barely inside my colon, so I could adjust to the invasion. A moment later, that magnificent stallion began a rapid cycle of push, pause, withdraw slightly, and push again. I was moaning, half in pain and half thrilled by my subjugation and occupation. I found myself trying to talk past my gag, begging Stud to give it to me harder! Harder!

Oh, yeah—add Fourth to my “To Do” list: find a reliable source of Doctor Z’s magic elixir. I was going to spend the next five years getting thoroughly reamed up my thrilled ass! Which, unfortunately, meant more blush-worthy visits to a physician.

Just then, I saw Don’s table pass again as the stage continued to rotate. He blew me a kiss, and I smiled and tried to return the gesture, which is hard to do with an O-ring gag in your mouth, but I think my wiggling tongue sent the right message!

Maybe I can come back here in five years, repeat my willing violation of the prenup, and go on to yet another term as Master Don’s collared whore. Hmmmm.

[jessmartin]

I love the Breeding Barn, especially when it's free women dressing up as pony girls and getting fucked by the club studs realizing they can't live without a slave collar and their dose of hot juice.

[Mr. Smith]

Maybe we get another chapter of Rosebud's many adventures as a FINO slut/hot wife/slave. Think of the possibilities.

[JustBob]

Carl - you do an amazing job of getting into the head of your candidate as they slide down the hill to their collar! Very hot story. May e something about Chocolate too?

[Carl Bradford]

Anyone with plot suggestions for the further adventures of the Mustang pony girls, feel free to send them to bradcard316@yahoo.com. If you're interested in the Breeding Barn (which I didn't invent), I wrote about another free woman who becomes a willing victim in "Breeding the Pony Girl" Pt. 08 and 09.
Carl

[jessmartin]

Anyone with plot suggestions for the further adventures of the Mustang pony girls, feel free to send them to bradcard316@yahoo.com. If you're interested in the Breeding Barn (which I didn't invent), I wrote about another free woman who becomes a willing victim in "Breeding the Pony Girl" Pt. 08 and 09.
Carl

In the story 'Breeding the Pony Girl' is where I discovered the Breeding Barn.
One of the best and most exciting stories I have read along with the 'Girl in the Window'.

[Mr. Smith]

The Breeding Barn Cafe is located on the Parker Center equestrian facility located on the outskirts of Dallas. Much like the FINO prenuptial agreement concept developed last year it was derived from email correspondence in the summer of 2021 between Carl and myself. We along with Avvy, Zee and ESS often flush out ideas for these stories as we create possible crossover institutions and characters. The Breeding Barn is featured in chapters 10-12 of Allison's story. In homage to the collaboration I created a Carl Bradford character.

How about Rosebud and her herd of BFF ponygirls participate in an SMU fundraiser for the current crop of college ponygirls or athletic department at the Parker Center culminating at the Breeding Barn when the sun sets and most activities should move indoors. SMU is located in Dallas and I'm sure all sorts of "sports boosters" would be willing to participate supporting this good cause. This would be consistent with the "hot wife" theme of this story. It could even be a weekend long event with all sorts of fun adult ponygirl themed games.