Ho 4 The Holidays, P5: A Tag, Collar, Bit, & Ring

[imreadonly2]

I tried to read over Mason’s shoulder, to see which of the myriad of checkboxes that controlled my fate he was choosing, but Emmet had other ideas.

Mason began making the selections, his hand moving quickly over the many boxes on the carbon paper form. I craned my neck, trying to catch a glimpse of which of the myriad of checkboxes and options on the long form he was choosing. The anticipation was driving me wild, but every time I looked over his shoulder, Emmet's hand would push my head down again, reminding me of my place. I chewed my lip nervously, wondering what Mason would do with me. I was scared, but my pussy purred at the thought of being totally under his command.

As I obediently stared at my filthy bare feet, Emmet looked over Mason’s shoulder, and copied the registration number on the top of the form onto a small envelope, then dropped the Huckleberry Farm branding head inside. I didn’t understand exactly what was going on procedurally, but even with my limited naked-slave-girl understanding, I knew that nothing about the branding head’s presence was good news.

I tried to look up to see what Mason was scribbling on my form, but again, Emmet pushed my face down. I looked down again at my embarrassingly brown feet, feeling the grit of the parking lot under my toes. Their filth was a stark reminder of the exciting transformation that was happening.

I held my breath as the all powerful Mason tapped his pen against the paper and clipboard, his eyes skimming the form. “Shit, this thing is confusing,” he muttered.

“You need any help?” Emmet asked.

“No, I’ll figure it out, I guess. I’m a lawyer, you know,” Mason replied, his voice dripping with his courtroom arrogance.

I wanted to scream. Because it was carbon paper, they had squeezed everything onto one form. I could tell Mason was confused by the forms endless abbreviations and acronyms, but like a man who won’t stop and ask for directions he was going to wing it. After all, he was a lawyer, right?

His cockiness wasn’t unfamiliar to me. As a lawyer, I frequently made my best guess, but now I was the client, and it was my ass on the line, literally. It’s different when you’re on the receiving end of a lawyer’s best guess.

I closed my eyes, trying to steady myself, even as I enjoyed the buzz between my legs. I could hear the ice cream truck music and the people playing football and the buzz of the flea market behind me. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat echoing like a drum in the cage of my ribs as Mason puzzled over the forms.

Emmet leaned closer, his eyes never leaving my naked body as he spoke to Mason. “You can ignore the prices in the branding section and auction preparation section. Those are free today. Don’t worry, we'll total it all out at the register."

Mason nodded, lifting up the carbon to see if his marks were going through. "You really should upgrade to digital," he observed. “This is really hard to read.”

Emmet laughed. "City boy!" he teased.

"Just make sure it goes through the carbon paper," Emmet said. "Those boys in back will do damn near anything, if you don't tell 'em what to do."

"Hmm, it's asking if I wanna get ‘er a tag," Mason mused aloud, his eyes flicking over to me as he lapsed back into country speak. “Whatcha think?"

"Yeah, that's probably a good idea," Emmet said. "It'll make it easier to find her if she ever tries to run off, and she doesn't have a SIN yet. A tag is the safest bet."

Mason looked at me, as if I somehow would have the answer. Seeing my confusion, he smirked, and made a show of checking off the box for my tag with a flourish.

“What’s a tag?” I asked, leaning forward to try and catch a glimpse of the form.

Emmet's hand shot out and grabbed my neck, forcing my head back down. His grip was firm, unyielding. I felt like a rebellious calf being taught a lesson. The plastic cuffs bit into my skin as I struggled, my eyes watering slightly.

“On your knees,” Emmet ordered, his voice gruff. "You're not here to read your processing form, or ask a lot of shit-for-brains questions, slave girl,” he said. I hesitated, my pride fighting against the instinct to obey.

I knelt in the dirt, my heart racing with a mix of fear and excitement. Suddenly I felt his powerful thighs come up behind me, clamping down around my neck like a vice. His hands were rough and calloused, the smell of leather and sweat clinging to him like a second skin. He forced my face down, the dirt biting into my knees as I stared down at the ground. I tried to resist, my body straining against his hold, but he was too strong, too in control.

The cold spray hit my ear, and I yelped. After a moment I realized it was just rubbing alcohol, the harsh scent burning my nose and making my eyes water. I tried to jerk away, but his grip on my head was unyielding, his fingers like steel. The liquid ran down my neck, sending a shiver of cold down my shoulder, and I felt the anticipation building in the air.

Emmet's voice was gruff, his words cutting through the sound of my racing heart. "Hold still, now," he said, ”This will just take a sec."

I strained to see Mason again, but he was focused on the stupid form, the lines of his brow furrowed in concentration. He was the man in charge here, the one making the decisions. And for some twisted reason, his raw power made my pussy throb with desire.

The sound of Emmet's belt jingling as he pulled a tool off confused me more.

Turning my head, I saw the tool was worn pair of crimpers or pliers with two red handles. It was a simple device, but in this context, it looked as ominous as a medieval torture instrument.

"What are you doing?" I ask, my voice trembling.

“Shut the fuck up and you’ll find out," Emmet replied, clearly not in the mood to answer questions from the naked slave girl between his legs.

I tried to pull away, but his grip held me steady. He was experienced, and I didn’t know any tricks he hadn’t seen a dozen times before. I was just another animal, and he’s going to get the job done.

I felt cold metal touch my ear, and I held my breath, bracing for the pain.

The gun went off with a deafening pop, and I screamed, my voice raw and desperate as the pain shot through my ear. The tag felt white hot, burning my skin as it pierced the delicate flesh of my ear. It was a brutal, violent sensation that left me trembling, my eyes squeezed shut. The tagger stabbed through my ear like a hot knife. The pain was sharp and immediate, and I yelped, hot tears rolling down my cheeks.

I could hear people laughing, but Emmet’s laughter pierced through the rest. "Looks like we've got ourselves a real drama queen," he said, his voice filled with mocking amusement. "Crying like that over a little tag. You ain't seen nothing yet, darlin'. The tag ayn’t nothin’ next to the brand.”

The weight of the tag pulled on my ear, throbbing with every movement of my head. I wanted to rip it out, to fight back against this degradation, but my hands were still zip tied behind me, useless. Besides, with the tag positioned dead center, I’d probably end up ripping off my own ear. Again, they obviously knew how to deal with slave girls who thought they were clever, like me.

Emmet released his grip, and I fell face first onto the ground, exhausted. My tears mixed into the dirt, forming a muddy paste as I struggled to breathe.

"Does tagging cost anything?" Mason asks, his voice eerily calm as I sobbed on the ground.

"Naw, it's part of the processing," he says. “They don’t even put no price on the form, see?”

"Good to know," Mason said. “You really gotta watch livestock processing fees, especially with commodity prices these days.”

“Ayn’t that the truth,” Emmet agreed.

I laid there, trying to shake the pain from my ear, the tag throbbing with every breath, I remembered the sheep I'd seen grazing in Mason's barnyard. The were so docile, so obedient, with their tags bobbing as they chewed. Now, I was one of them, with my own tag dangling from my ear.

I didn’t have long to rest. Grabbing me by the scruff of the neck, Emmet lifted me to my feet and marched me over to the first sign of functional modern technology I’d seen that day, a wooden table with a laptop and a digital camera.

He stood me on a yellow faded yellow X on the ground in front of the table and ordered me into “presentation position”. I knew enough about slavery to know what he meant, and dropped to my knees and spread my legs to shoulder length. Kneeling in the dirt, I felt a sense of violation as Emmet positioned the camera, pointing it directly at my naked body. My cheeks burned with humiliation, my knees pressing into the dirt as I struggled to keep my dignity in the face of such blatant objectification.

Emmet adjusted the camera, his rough hands moving with a practiced ease that spoke of the countless times he'd done this before.

"Spread ‘em wider,” he said, his voice a gruff bark. "Let's get a good look at the merchandise.”

My cheeks burned with a mix of embarrassment and arousal as I obeyed, pushing my knees apart until my thighs were trembling with the effort. The cool air hit my wetness, and I couldn't help but gasp. It was like a spotlight had been shone directly on my shameful excitement, and the dirt and gravel beneath me bit into my knees, grounding me in the reality of my situation.

Emmet's eyes narrowed as he took in the sight before him, his gaze lingering on my exposed sex. "Looks like you're enjoying yourself," he said, his voice a leer. "Or are you just eager to get that drippy snatch of yer's graded?"

My blush deepened, and I bit my lip. The mix of excitement and humiliation was a potent cocktail that had my body responding in ways I didn't want to admit.

He looked through his lens, and frowned. He clomped over, his heavy boots leaving a trail of dust in his wake. Pulling a dirty rag from his pocket, he spit into it. With a rough hand, he grabs my chin, forcing me to look up at him. His spit-soaked rag comes down, smacking against my face with surprising force. He starts to scrub my face, the dirty rag scraping against my cheeks and forehead. "You can't go into the auction looking like that," he says, his voice gruff. “Rubbing ‘yer face in the shit like a little piggy.”

The taste of his saliva and the stench of the rag is overwhelming, but I know better than to resist. "Dirty little piggy," he chuckles, his words a taunt that sends a fresh wave of arousal through me. “Let’s clean that snout."

He continues to scrub, the rag moving from my mouth to my cheeks, my forehead, then back to my chin. It's a brutal, dehumanizing act, one that leaves me feeling filthy and used. But as the dirt is wiped away, something else emerges: a feeling of being cared for by a strong, powerful man who knew precisely what he was dong.

I look down at myself, the dirt clinging to my bare skin like a second layer. My breasts are smeared with the grime of the ground, the mud from my tears creating a stark pattern that traces their path down my chin and neck. My stomach is a canvas of brown and pink, the dirt sticking to my sweat like glue.

The sight of myself like this, soiled and helpless, sends a jolt of self-loathing through me. It's a stark contrast to the clean, professional look I was always careful to maintain, even at the gym. But here, in this world of cattle and chains, nobody expected me to be clean. My instinct is to wipe away the filth, to maintain some semblance of dignity, but the zip ties around my wrists render me powerless. I'm a barnyard animal that can't even clean itself.

Confused, I watched Emmet pick up two pieces of poster board, the red magic marker letters stark against the slightly yellowed cardboard. Emmet leaned the two pieces of cardboard in front of the table in front of me.

“Read it,” he said gruffly.

My heart sank as the words "Alabama Power of Attorney, Enslavement and Sale Empowerment" came into focus. It was a legal document, one that gave Mason the power to do with me as he wished—register me as a slave, grade me like livestock, or sell me to the highest bidder. The legal reality was terrifying, and for a moment, I couldn't breathe. I began to read the words aloud, aware of Emmet's satisfied smirk as he recorded my words on camera.

As each word left my mouth, my heart raced faster, the blood rushing through my veins like a river of panic. As one by one, I surrendered each of my legal rights, my pussy grew hotter and hotter. It was a betrayal of my own mind, my body's involuntary response to the situation I found myself in. My cheeks burned with a mix of anger and arousal, my voice shaking slightly as I listed off all the ways in which Mason could now claim an ownership interest in me.

I looked up, to see Mason holding my slave collar. It was the moment of truth.

I took a deep breath, my heart pounding in my chest. I wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, I stuck out my neck, my body trembling with anticipation. I feel like I'm offering myself to the executioner, kneeling in the dust of Tower Hill.

Mason's touch is surprisingly tender as he adjusts the collar. His hands move through my hair, smoothing it back, his fingertips grazing my skin as he makes sure the collar sits just right. It's a strange mix of sensations, his gentle touch against the cold steel of the collar. He's so close that I can smell the faint scent of his aftershave, a stark contrast to the earthy odor of the stockyard.

The collar feels like a noose, tight and unyielding around my neck. It's nothing like the pearl necklace I wore in LA. The slave collar is not a symbol of my wealth. This collar is a symbol of something else entirely—my submission, my degradation, Mason’s ownership of my body. Yet, as the cold metal closes around my neck, the weight of it pressing down, I can't help but feel a twisted sense of excitement. The click of the lock echoes in the air, a sound that is both final and terrifyingly erotic.

Mason's hands are gentle as he adjusts my hair, his fingertips grazing the skin of my neck. His touch is a comfort, a reminder that he's still here, that he's the one in control. As he secures the collar, I feel his eyes on me, watching my every reaction. The collar is snug, but not painfully so, but it will be a constant reminder of my new status, and it will remain on until Mason removes it. If he removes it.

Mason helps me to my feet, and for a moment, I'm unsteady. “You okay?" he asks, his voice filled with a concern that seems out of place amidst the chaos of the stockyard.

I nod, my voice barely a whisper. "Yeah," I say, my throat dry from the dust and fear. "I'm thirsty."

Emmet chuckles, the sound echoing off the metal siding of the barn. "You're in luck, then," he says, gesturing to the old wooden trough a few feet away. "We've just put the hose in the trough about an hour ago.”

I looked at the old wooden trough. It looked like something out of an old Western. There were several cows drinking from it, and two goats. Seriously?

I looked to Mason. Smiling, he took a water bottle out of his pocket and took a long, leisurely drink. His Adam's apple bobbed with each swallow, the muscles in his neck rippling with the effort. I watch, my mouth dry and my throat parched, as he drinks his fill. It's a simple act, one that I've seen a thousand times before, but now it's a show of power, a demonstration of his authority.

Men control the water. Slave girls beg.

As if to reinforce the point, Mason raised the bottle in the air, dangling it just out of reach. I know the game. He wanted me to jump for it, beg for it, like a dog. I glared at him. He grinned back at me, obviously enjoying himself. Did I want to beg like a dog, or lap up water like a cow?

My eyes dart to the trough, the murky water reflecting the harsh light of the sun. It's clear that this isn't water for humans, but for animals. The thought sends a jolt of arousal through me, and I can't help but feel a strange sense of excitement.

Would Mason really do this to me? I don’t even drink tap water in restaurants. Would he really stand there and watch while I lapped up this filth?

Emmet's hand comes down on my bare ass with a sharp crack, the sound echoing through the stockyard. "Get to it, girl," he barks. "We need to get yer ass registered.”

I looked to my grinning boyfriend. Fuck him. I wasn’t going to beg. I was going to show him, and prove that I could take whatever humiliation this shit hole barnyard could dish out.

My face burned with shame as I stumbled towards the trough, my legs shaking. The other cows, their eyes dull with resignation, saw me, but took little notice of the new animal at their watering hole. Their mournful lowing filled the air, a chorus of despair that seemed to resonate within my very soul.

I knelt between the cows, nudging myself a place. The water was a murky brown, flecked with bits of grass, cow spittle, and the occasional dead bug. Revolted, I looked up at Mason, my eyes pleading. He grinned, and gave me a little wink. I could tell he was getting off on this, seeing me kneel before the disgusting trough. Teasingly, he took an extra long drink of his water, licking his lips to show me how tasty it was. His lack of pity - no, his sadistic glee - sent a thrill through my body, overwhelming my sense of disgust.

With my hands cuffed behind my back, I had no way of filtering out the particle matter. To use one of the favorite expressions of my personal fitness trainer, I’d have to suck it up. I leaned forward, the collar digging into my neck as it grazed the rotting wood of the trough. Closing my eyes, I dipped my lips into the brown rottenness. The cold, dirty liquid quickly filled my mouth. I struggled not to gag. Soon, I was lapping it up, my powerful, animalistic thirst overwhelming my self loathing and disgust.

Emmet was right. I wasn’t there to read forms, or ask questions, or think. I was a farm animal. I had tits for milking, a pussy for fucking, and a mouth for sucking. And this was just the beginning. It was all so much more real than I ever imagined it would be.

I felt Emmet's beefy hand on my neck, pulling me out of the trough with a jerk that sent water spraying over my breasts and down onto my belly. My eyes were wide with shock, my nose and mouth dribbling dirty liquid.

I sputtered, coughing and choking, as he asked, "You need to piss, little missy?" His finger jabbed into my lower stomach, just above my pussy, pressing hard into my bladder.

The sudden pressure made me gasp, and I nodded frantically, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. It's a humiliating question, one that reduced me to a toddler needing to use the potty. But I couldn't lie; my bladder was full to bursting.

Laughing, he continued poking my bladder. I did a humiliating potty dance for him as I struggled to hold it in. "Yes," I admitted. "May I use the ladies room?"

Emmet's laugh echoes around the stockyard, a deep, belly-laugh that has heads turning in our direction. Even people who weren't paying attention to us couldn't help but crack a smile at the absurdity of my request. "Ladies room, huh?" he said, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Right this way, Miss California.”

His grip on my neck was like a vice as he led me away from the cows and over to a metal grate in the ground. It was a crude setup, designed to funnel waste into a murky, stench-filled pit. The sight of it made my stomach turn, but my bladder screamed for relief. "Squat down and get to it," he said, his voice a gruff command that left no room for argument. "It's tinkle time, my little Potty Princess."

The people around me continued their activities, blissfully unaware of the degradation unfolding before their eyes. Men haggled over livestock, happy voices played football and tag, and country music twanged in the background, creating a bizarre juxtaposition of normalcy with the horror I was facing.

I looked at Emmet in disbelief, my eyes wide with embarrassment. "Here?" I whispered, her voice barely audible above the lowing cattle. "But...there are people everywhere."

Emmet grinned, showing off his crooked, tobacco-stained teeth. “That’s right," he said, his voice a gruff chuckle. "All part of the show. It’ll be kinda fun, watching a stuck up little California Princess squat and release her golden stream. Feel free to crap a gold bar, if you wanna.”

I turned, and spotted Mason, who had moved over to give him a perfect view of my squat and release. This was new, as he never seen me pee before, and certainly not outside, and on command. There was a smug smile playing on his lips as he dared me to call it off. Was this going to be the last straw?

Fuck him.

With trembling legs, I lowered myself to a squat over the grate, spreading my legs wide to avoid splashing on myself. The smell of urine and animal waste coming up from the grate burned in my nostrils, making my stomach churn.

"Come on," Emmet says, his voice gruff and impatient. "California is the golden state, right? Let's see that golden stream of yours."

I strain to pee. I noticed a few of the people passing by had noticed Emmet and Mason looking, and then had stopped to see what they were looking at. One person stops to look at something, then another, then another. Squinting my eyes as I tried to focus on doing my business, they were reduced to images. A dog, with a collar that looked more comfortable than mine. A balloon animal. Pink cowboy boots. A man dressed as Santa. A Tweety Bird t-shirt. I struggled to shut out the crowd.

My bladder finally released, and a stream of urine arced out of me, shooting up before splattering down into a metal grate with a sound that, in my mind, echoed through the stockyard. It was a relief, but also an entirely fresh kind of humiliation. I'd never had to pee in front of anyone before, let alone like this, on display for anyone cared to watch. My bladder was full, and it took a while. I was surprised how many stayed to watch the show, looking at my pussy like it was a fountain at the Bellagio.

Through the corner of my eye, I spotted Taylor standing next to Mason, her arm around his waist, watching as I peed for her viewing pleasure. She said something to Mason, her voice too low for me to hear, but his laugh told me everything I needed to know. They were a couple now, and bonding together in the shared experience of my utter degradation. The thought of Mason’s betrayal at the hands of this hillbilly ho sent a fresh wave of anger and arousal through me, and I peed harder, as if to show them that they wouldn’t get the better of me.

As my urine pitter-pattered on the metal grate, Taylor's voice rose above the din of the stockyard. “Let her rip, Blue State!” she shouted merrily. “See, Mason? She’s peeing like a racehorse!"

Mason's laugh joined hers, deep and hearty. It's a sound that's both infectious and humiliating. My cheeks burn with embarrassment as I squatted in front of them, my pussy exposed, my piss arcing out of me. As they laughed, I felt as if I was sliding down a hill with a cart and a pony bit waiting at the bottom.

Taylor's southern drawl sweet as honey and bitter as gall called out, "They use the animal piss to make fertilizer, Blue State. You're fertilizing my daddy's fields with your water show, bitch. Pee hard, my little horsey. It’s money in my pocket, ha-ha!”

Her laughter rang through the stockyard, a cruel melody that pierced my soul. My cheeks burn with embarrassment, but my body responds in a way I can't control. I peed harder, squeezing out the last few drops, finishing with an intensity that surprised even me.

When I finished, I stood. My legs were wobbly, and I couldn’t use my hands, but I wanted to show Taylor how strong my legs were, as if daring her to fulfill her threat. I looked over to see reaction, but she wasn’t looking at me. Her hand was wrapped tightly around Mason's waist, her head on his shoulder, giggling as she pointed out boxes he should fill in on my registration form. They were a picture of ease and familiarity, and it stung me to see how easily she had replaced me.

Speaking loudly enough for me to hear, Taylor handed a clear plastic bag to Mason, her long fingers stroking the contents. "Here," she says, her voice a sweet drawl. "This'll keep her from getting too chatty.”

Mason took the bag, his eyes widening as he peered inside. The contraption was unlike anything I'd seen before—leather straps and gleaming metal, a puzzle that I knew would be solved at my expense. The tension in the air thickened as he pulled the object out, holding it up to inspect.

“It’s a pony bit," Taylor explained, her syrupy sweetness doing nothing to hide the malice in her voice. "It'll keep her yap shut while you register her. I had to sell one of my mares today, and this is her bit," she said with a shrug, her gaze cold and detached. “The mare's knee went out on her after she fell under the cart, and the lazy bitch couldn't race anymore. But she's still got her uses, if you catch my drift.”

Mason held up the bit up by two fingers, his face contorted in disgust. The slimy, well-chewed piece of leather and metal glistened, with strands of drool hanging from it like a grim necklace.

Mason held it away from him. ”It's got more slobber on it than a kid's lollipop," he said, holding it while trying not to touch it, with the distaste one might show for a rotten piece of meat.

“It's broken in, sure," Taylor said with a shrug, her eyes focused on me like lasers even as a hint of amusement played across her angelic features. “But all those deep teeth marks prove that you can’t bite through it, even under the whip. Trust me, it'll do the job."

"You're not really going to put that in her mouth, are you?" Mason asks, his voice a mix of surprise and revulsion. “It looks more like something you’d throw away.”

Taylor laughs, a sound that's as cold and sharp as the metal bit. "Oh, honey," she says, her voice dripping with sweetness. "This tastes way better than what the stable boys will put in her mouth at my daddy’s pony ranch.”

"And what a taste it will be!" Emmet chuckles. Taylor laughs along at the old man picked up on her attempt at humor, but Mason, staring at the bit, looks doubtful.

"Will this even fit a human? It looks like a horse bit."

“It was originally, but I modified it. I can MAKE it fit," Taylor says brightly. "Here, let me show you."

She took the bit from Mason's tentative grasp, holding it away from herself like it was contaminated, her thumb and forefinger pinching the buckle. Keeping the slobbery part away from her cute outfit she held it up high and smiled at me. It was a gesture that was both practical and theatrical, as she let me get a good look at the drip mess, while handling it like a snake that might bite.

“Taylor, no… please…” I say my voice a squeak.

“Pony girls don’t talk, Blue State" she said, talking to me like I was a puppy that made a mess on the rug. “Having this lovely bit in your mouth will help you remember that. Don’t worry about the smell. Trust me, with the stable boys who work for me don’t smell so good, and you’re going to getting a good whiff of them real soon.”

“Be reasonable! I know you like Mason, but…” my protest was cut short as she came up behind me, and slid the slobbery, worn bit between my teeth.

Taylor's grip on the back of my head was firm, and her fingers dug into my scalp as she forced the bit deep into my mouth. I could feel the stickiness of the bit as it pressed against my tongue, the taste of old leather mixing with the saliva.

“A lot of my ponies have worn this bit, Blue State,” she cooed into my ear. “I never wash it, so when you bite down, you’ll taste everyone of them.”

The thought of countless girls chewing on the old leather caused my gag reflex to kick in, but Taylor had the upper hand. Putting her knee in my back she pulled back on the bit until the leather pulled my gums back. My teeth sink into the bit, releasing the disgusting spittle of dozens of girls even as my mouth was forced into an obscene smile. My slobber mixed in with theirs, forming a rancid cocktail.

“See?” she said, buckling it tight as she whispered in my ear. “It fits like it was made for you. Because it was.”

Her words startled me. Wa it an expression, or did she know I was Mason’s girlfriend? I had never asked Mason if he had taken Taylor off his Instagram or Facebook accounts. Why would I bother? She was nothing to me, a mere pothole I had driven over long ago.

Knowing how bitter Taylor was at losing Mason, I wondered if she had cyber stalked us, watching us online, her fury growing as she watched us go to concerts, and enjoy our curtsied seats near Jack and the other celebs at the Lakers game. The thought of her fuming as I posted the picture of us backstage with the real Taylor made me laugh.

I imagined her watching as Mason moved into my luxury digs, despising me from afar. Every time she put the bit in some poor girl’s mouth, or cracked the whip on her ass as she drove her around the track, did she imagine it was me? Was I the source of her bitterness and fury? Mason had warned me not to spill the beans, but she knew. She KNEW. And there was going to be hell to pay.

Taylor stepped back and admired her handiwork. “See how happy she is?” she said to Mason, cheerfully. “Girls on my pony ranch are always smiling!”

The bit was cold and unwieldy, and pushed against the roof of my mouth and the back of my throat. I tried to protest, to warn Mason that Brittany knew, and was up to no good, but all that came out was a series of muffled, incoherent animal noises that made everyone around me laugh.

"Pleeeease," I whined, my tongue thick around the leather. More laughter, as it came out as a strangled, gargling mess. The gag in my mouth made it impossible to form any coherent words, and the more I tried to talk, the funnier it was.

Taylor smirked, her eyes sparkling with a cruel satisfaction, as she stroked my cheek with mock gentleness, showing her total control. "Look at you, trying to talk," she says, her voice a low drawl. “What a silly little pony you are!”

Mason shook his head and chuckled, but I could sense his reserve as the game escalated. I could see he was torn between his desire to protect me and how turned on he was to watch my methodical transformation into Taylor’s pet pony. The worst part was I was turned on to, and like him, wanted to keep playing the game I wanted to stop.

"Maybe we should take that bit out for now," he said uneasily. "We need to tattoo her lip, and we can't do that with the bit in."

"Oh, we can totally do it," Taylor said, ruling my upper lip back to demonstrate. "She'll be fine. and it will go faster if she isn't yapping."

"I guess," Mason said, in a voice that suggested he didn’t agree but was out of reasons to argue.

Taylor wrapped her arms around Mason's waist, and pressed her body into his like a second skin. Looking over at me with a smile that could cut glass, her eyes narrowed. "Is this just some fancy LA pussy you're registering, or is there something going on between you two?" she asked, her voice a purr. "Because if you're getting all attached, I might have to send old Blue State here to the glue factory.”

Sensing the danger, Mason turned away from me. “No, she’s just a friend-of-a-friend, would-be Pleasure Slut who wanted to see what slave registration is like,” he said, dismissing me as he looked deeply into Taylor’s blue eyes. “No competition for a real Arkansas girl.”

Taylor smiled, pleased with the answer. ”Well, I'd say she's in good hands," Taylor says with a smug smile, her eyes lingering on me. "Emmet and I know just how to handle a fresh piece of slave meat. Don't we, Emmet?”

Emmet, smiling, nodded. “Nobody can break a pony like Miss Taylor,” he admitted.

In another sign of ownership, Taylor kissed Mason, then ran her hand down his chest. He didn’t resist. If he was trying to con Taylor, he was playing the game well, maybe too well. “I got some merchandise I gotta buy, darlin’,” she drawled. “You be a good boy, and get his little pony graded, and then we’ll set her price.”

Giving him another, quicker peck on the lips, she turned, swaying her ass as she sauntered away.
“Hurry back, bitch,” I thought, even as I imagined her getting her long blonde curls caught up in a combine or getting charged at by some bull attracted to her bright red lipstick.

Mason watched her swaying ass until it turned around the corner. He chuckled, then returned his attention to my carbon paper processing form. Mason’s hand was steady as he checked off the final boxes, his pen scratching the paper with each decision made about my future. I hoped to fuck he knew what he was doing. It was strange, feeling so powerless and so excited at the same time. I knew that in this world, I had no say in what happened to me. It was all up to him. Mason was in control.

Emmet gave me the look, signaling that I should be none to interested in what Mason was up to. Like it or not, I knew Emmet was in charge, and could make my life easy or hard. Obediently, I lowered my gaze to the ground, my heart racing. I could hear them unloading the cows off the truck. The thought of being treated like the cattle that were walking into the barn ahead of me was both terrifying and exhilarating. Just like them, I had no voice in my fate. I was here to be processed. I was part of an industrial farm system bigger than myself.

Mason paused in his paperwork, looking up at Emmet with a puzzled expression. "What's this 'UO GRADING' for?" he asked, pointing to a section on the form.

Emmet leaned in, his breath a whirlwind of tobacco and BBQ sauce. "Ah, that's an unofficial grading," he said, his eyes lighting up. "For twenty bucks, Hank will give her a quick look-see. Just a little titty squeeze and a pussy poke, but it’ll give you an idea of what she might bring.”

Mason's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Twenty bucks? That's a steal!" He chuckled, clearly astonished by the low price. "Why so cheap?"

Emmet leaned back, crossing his arms. "It's cheap because it ain't official," he explained. "Can't use it at the bank or nothin'. But it'll give ya an idea, you know, for when you're ready to sell."

My stomach churned at the mention of selling. I knew this was a game, a role-play that Mason and I had agreed upon, but the reality of it was so intense that my mind reeled. I was his to use, to enjoy, and now, to grade. The thought of some stranger named Hank poking and prodding at my most intimate parts to determine their value in Shitsville, Arkansas made me squirm with a mix of fear and anticipation.

“Too bad the bank won’t take it,” he said. “Ma can always use more collateral, and the banks are tighter than a tick these days.”

“Sure are,” Emmet agreed. “Commodity prices are shit. Damn near gotta mortgage your poop just to make it thru to harvest.”

"What's a floor offer?" Mason asked, as he scaned the form with a furrowed brow.

Emmet leaned against the side of the truck, his expression nonchalant. "Ah, that's just when we put 'er out on the sales floor for a bit," he explained, his thumbs hooked into his belt loops. "Let folks get a good look, maybe give her a little feel, and make an offer. Nothing serious, just to see what kind of interest she garners. Banks sometimes take that, if it’s hot pussy.”

“Thinks she’s hot enough?” Mason asked.

“Fuck yeah!” Emmet said, laughing as he grabbed at my pussy, causing me to jump away.

Mason's eyes narrowed, considering the implications. "But I don't have to sell her, right?" His grip on the pen tightened slightly. I squeezed my thighs together. I didn’t like where this was going, or basing so much of this “collateral” discussion on what some guy in overalls was saying, or tying my future to the weather in rural Arkansas or next year’s soybean’s prices versus this years slave pussy futures. But with the gag in my mouth, all I could do was dribble out of all of my holes.

Emmet shrugged. “Ya’ don’t gotta sell ‘er if ya’ don't like the price," he said. "But it's a good way to figure the market. And who knows, ya’ might get an offer that's too good to pass up."

My heart racing again as the reality of the proposal sunk in. I was going to be put out on the floor for people to “inspect”, grope, and feel, like a prize cow at an auction. My legs felt like jelly, and my knees threatened to buckle under the weight of the collar around my neck.

Mason looked up from the form, his gaze meeting mine. The smirk on his face told me he was enjoying my reaction, the power play we had agreed to. "But who's going to be examining her?" he asked, keeping his voice casual, as if he were discussing the weather.

Emmet shrugged, his eyes never leaving my body. "Anybody that wanders in," he said. "Could be a local farmer, a truck driver passing through, or maybe even some of them fancy city folk looking to add a little spice to their collection. Last week we had a broker from Atlanta.”

“No kidding,” Mason said. “That’s a pretty long drive for a lookie-lew.”

Emmet's smiled at the chance to share some juicy gossip. “We started gettin’ rich broker guys after the pandemic," he said, leaning in closer. “Brokers, moving around like sharks, looking for some hot farm girl they can turn at a quick dollar in New Orleans, or sell overseas. We got an Indian guy who sniffs around too, and some guy from China, I think. They have a sheet, so they know what they’re looking for. Arab guy bought a blonde girl last week. Word is a sheik he's working for wanted a Western girl for his harem. I guess it’s a status thing, makin’ some hot American girl dance naked while you and your friends eat dinner.”

Mason's hand paused, the pen hovering over the form. "Is that right?”

Emmet looked me up and down. “If she’s a runner, you should put that down in the Special skills section. Check the athlete box, and then write in Marathon or sprinter or whatever shit she did,” he said, handing Mason back the form.

Mason took back the form, and with a quick check and a tiny scribble, reduced my lifetime of athletic achievements, hours of pain and sweat, early mornings and late nights spent pushing my body to the limit, to a selling point. Strange as it was, I felt a little bit of pride in addition to my humiliation.

Mason nodded thoughtfully, his gaze never wavering from the form. "What else should I include?" he asked, his voice low and deliberate. "Her law degree? Her class ranking?"

Emmet waved his hand dismissively. "Nobody cares about that shit," he said. "Just write down that she can run, or do gymnastic, or dance. That's what folks round here want to know. Can she jump a fence? Lick her own snatch? Nobody ‘round these parts buys slave pussy for conversation.”

The men both laughed. I drooled, wishing I had drank more water.

Mason handed the clipboard back to Emmet.

Emmet took the form, his eyes skimming over the information. "Alright then," he said, his voice gruff. "Just remember, once we go through with this, there's no turning back.”

I felt terrified even as my pussy leaked. I had given Mason the power to sell me like a piece of property, and I had no idea what he had checked on my processing form. I was at the top of a roller coaster with no bottom in sight.

"You sure you don't want to double check it?" Emmet offered, holding the clipboard out to Mason.

Mason waved him off with a chuckle. "Thanks, but I've got it," he said, "I'm a lawyer, remember?"

Emmet tore off the top page of the form and handed it to Mason. "That's your copy," he said. "Take it to the register, and they'll give you a claim ticket.”

“Got it,” Mason said. “Just like when I order a bag a feed,” he said.

Mason took the top copy and folded it before placing it into the back pocket of his jeans. The idea of claiming me with a simple ticket made my stomach flip with excitement and dread. The casualness of the transaction was a stark contrast to the intense emotions swirling within me.

"What if I lose the claim ticket?" he asked, teasing me with a country boy grin.

Emmet's laugh was gruff. “Don't” he chuckled.

I whimpered, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. I knew the two men were teasing me, but the idea of being lost, forgotten, or even claimed by someone else was genuinely terrifying. I k knew Mason was just playing with me, pushing my boundaries, but the fear was all too real. I had been reduced to a claim ticket in my boyfriend’s pocket.

Emmet took the little envelope with the branding head and attached it to the corner of his carbon with a second staple, the silver dollar-sized metal head hanging from the corner of the carbon forms like a morbid promise.

I stared at the envelope, my heart racing, my pussy dripping. A simple check mark on a carbon form could change my life forever. Slavery isn’t a fantasy, once you’re branding. Even if your free, the brand is for keeps.

Did Mason have me butt branded? Pussy branded? In LA, I was in control, but here, I wouldn’t know what was going to happen until it happened.

Emmet handed Mason a coaster sized object with the tacky-as-hell Sales Barn logo pasted on it. "This'll go off when she's all set," he says. "It'll buzz and beep. You can come pick her up then.”

Holding up the pager like the antique it was, Mason chuckled. “They have cell phones now, Emmet,” he said.
“Ya’ don’t need no fancy app to brand a girl’s butt,” Emmet replied. Both men laughed. I did not.
"Can I watch her get processed?" Mason asks, his voice hopeful.
Emmet shakes his head. “Sorry, employees only," he said, his tone firm. "But don't you worry, we'll take good care of her."

Mason looked my naked body up and down. He wasn’t smiling, and I squirmed under his appraising, thoughtful inspection. "Do you really think I could get a good price for her?"

“Ya’ never know till the sale," he said casually. “I’ve seen it all.”

“I bet you have. Can we take a quick peek at the auction ring before we process her?" Mason asks.

Emmet shrugs. "Sure, I’ll take you in the side door, but we got to make it fast. I need to keep someone out here for intake.”

Mason grinned at me as Emmet attached a leather leash to one of the steel loops in my collar. Leading me by my leash, Mason followed Emmet to the side door, and watched as he used a key from the key ring dangling from his belt to open it.

The sound of the old door creaking open sent a shiver down my spine. The barn's interior was dimly lit, the air thick with dust and the smell of hay, piss, and animals. The floor was compacted dirt, and cold. I hoped the wetness under my feet is water.

Mason jerked my leash again, and I stumbled forward, my bare feet slapping against the cold, unforgiving ground. The leather bit dug into my mouth, and I whined again, the sound echoing off the barn's high ceiling.

Leashed and naked, I entered into a functional, utilitarian space designed for one purpose, to facilitate the sale of animals in an organized and efficient manner. The ring itself was at the front of the room, a large circular area with a dirt floor covered with straw to absorb any mess from the animals. The garish overhead lighting ensured the space was brightly illuminated.

Around the perimeter of the ring were several raised podiums where the auctioneer and his staff stood. The auctioneer, positioned at the front of the ring, used a microphone to call out bids. The Bidders were seated on bleachers arranged in rows along the sides of the ring, offering them a clear view of the livestock as it is paraded around by handlers. There were two rows of seating, and we were standing at the top row.

A few rows down, seated to our left, was Taylor. As we were almost directly behind her, and standing in the shadows, she didn’t see us, but the men in the arena saw her.

Taylor languidly played on her phone. She had leaned back, against the seat behind her, and had stretched her long legs out over the bench in front of her. She had slipped off her cowboy boots, and was dangling her bare toes, painted as red as her lips, in the air.

Several of the men had arranged themselves to look at her as well as the auction. She pretended not to notice, but standing behind her I could see that she wasn’t actually scrolling messages on her phone but was running her finger up and down on her home screen as she watched them, watching her. Demonstrating her skill as an experienced prick tease, Taylor twirled her hair or licked her lips or stretched like a cat whenever she sensed their attention might be waining.

I looked at Mason and Emmet, but they were too stupid horny to see the game she was playing, and were focused on her long bare legs and dangling red toes, a stark contrast to the muddy feet of the naked, leashed girl beside them.

Even at a slave girl auction, Taylor had figured out a way to be the center of attention.

The gate on the left rose, and a cow trotted into the ring, looking confused. She moved to her right, but a man swatted at her with a stick with a fan on it, not touching her but turning her around. She ran back to the gate, but the man waved his hands, turning her around. She ran in circles around the little ring as the men frightened her, and the auctioneer sold her.

"Alright folks, I got lot number 42, a fine looking heifer right here, 1,200 pounds, certified organic, born and raised right here in the county, folks! Who’ll give me 2,000? 2,000? I got 2,000 now, who’ll give me 2,100? 2,100, 2,100, 2,100, now 22, 22, 22, thank you, I got 22, now 23, 23, 23, who’ll go 23? I got 22 right here, 22, 22, 22, now 23, now 23, 23, now 24, 24, 24, 24, now 25, 25, 25, 25, going once, going twice, sold! Right there, 2,500 to the man in the blue hat, congratulations!"

The gate on the right opened, and the cow ran through. Lot 42 was sold.

I looked at Mason, my brow wrinkled in confusion. Why did he want to watch cows being auctioned? Where did they sell the slave girls?

Sensing my confusion, Mason whispered in my ear. ”Just wait," he said, his voice low and filled with anticipation. "Here comes the fun part."

The gate on the left swung open, and the sound of clanking metal and a frantic bleat filled the air. But instead of another cow, a naked red-haired girl darted through the opening. She looked to be about my age, her skin pale and covered in freckles. Her wrists were bound behind her back, and she wore a gag similar to mine, also stained with drool.

Her eyes were wide with terror as she took in the unfamiliar environment, and she skidded to a stop when she saw the wrangler holding the whip. The sight of a human being treated like this, like an animal on display, brought the reality of my situation crashing down on me. This wasn't just a game, a role-play. This was as real as it got.

The auctioneer's voice grew louder, a cacophony of words that didn't quite register in my astonished brain. "Folks, we got a fine piece of Alabama slave tail, 19, bible fearin' girl, never been busted! A real looker, ain't she? Too bad her daddy can't manage his farm for shit." His words were slurred with a thick Southern drawl. I found the accent charming at Thanksgiving, but it didn’t seem so charming now.

Mason's hand found my pussy, his fingers slipping easily into my folds. I squirmed and whined, trying to pull away from his touch, but the leash held me firm. The bit gag in my mouth made it impossible to protest, my muffled whimpers lost in the din of the barn. The red-haired girl's eyes darted to me, the only other naked girl in the room. I could do nothing to help my sister. Indeed, with one word from Mason, I knew that I could be next.

The auctioneer's patter grew more rapid-fire as he called out prices, his voice rising and falling like a rollercoaster of commerce. "Look at that skin, folks, not a blemish on her! Strong legs, good hips, a breeding machine. Good for ploughin', or getting ploughed!" His words were like a knife, slicing through the poor girls dignity as she ran around in circles between the two whip cracking men. But the worst was the casualness of the bidders, some leaning back, watching with a lazy curiosity, while others raised their hands.

Mason's hand between my legs grew more insistent, his fingers delving deep into my wetness. The bit gag prevented any coherent sounds from escaping, but my body was speaking for me. It was betraying me, responding to his touch despite the horror unfolding before my eyes. The girl on the makeshift stage was being sold. Her future would be decided by the highest bidder. And I was getting off on the spectacle.

The girl, exhausted and terrified, stopped running. This, apparently, was not allowed, and the whip flicked against her ass. He legs jerked up and her knees bounced in the air as she tried to stomp out the pain. The red-haired girl's scream was muffled by the bit gag. Her breasts bounced in rhythm with the impact of the lash, and the bidders' eyes followed the motion hungrily.

The auctioneer chuckled into the microphone, his voice echoing through the barn. "Now, now, don't be shy," he said, his voice a blend of patronizing affection and cold business sense. "You wanna sell for top dollar, to help yer’ Daddy git his farm back. Ya’ gotta show 'em what you got, fire crotch. Keep those titties bouncing, sugar."

The girl on stage was jogging back and forth now, the whip snapping at her heels, urging her on like a cruel game of tag. She was crying, the sound muffled by the bit in her mouth.

As she bolted back and forth, the smell of urine hit my nose, and my eyes went wide with horror. The redhead was peeing herself, her legs shaking with each step.

Emmet laughed it off. "It's just a little whip flick," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "They holler like that even when you barely touch 'em."

The sight of her tears, her nakedness, her fear, it all hit me like a ton of bricks. My body betrayed me as I jerked off on Mason's fingers. I knew it was more than just the sting of the leather on her skin that had me so aroused. It was the power, the absolute control, that these men had over her life. And over mine.

The bidding slowed. An Indian man in the corner, wearing a sports jacket and slacks that made it clear that he was not from around her, made a topping bid. It was quite a bit more than the others, and the men in the arena turned to look at him.

Unhappy to lose their attention, or sensing her opportunity, Brittany topped his bid by $10,000.

The Indian and Brittany lobbed bids back and forth for close to a minute, until finally Brittany won. The auctioneer, smiling, pointed at Taylor, “Sold to Taylor, who always gets her pony!” he said, laughing with familiarity. Pleased at the attention, Taylor leaned back wiggling her feet in the air at mock ecstasy as she laughed in glee.

The sound of Mason’s laugh ended her revelry. She seemed surprised to see us, but then smiled as she quickly made her way to Mason, not even bothering to put on her boots. “I thought you’d have Blue State here tatted up for me by now,” Taylor said, not bothering to look at me as she focused her attention on her new boyfriend.

“We came to see you overbid for the redhead,” Mason teased.

“Yeah, I paid too much,” she said with a shrug. “But I wanted to see her prance. Her name’s Sissy, and she got mouthy with me when she caught me flirting with her boyfriend in the bar a couple of years ago. She said I was a circus freak, and I should get back on the record album cover. I’m going to enjoy branding my signature T on her cute little farm girl ass, and racing her around the track, and seeing the look on her face as I put her to stud.”

Looking at me, Taylor smiled. Her tone was playful, but her eyes were ice cold as she playfully parodied another Taylor’s song lyric. “You never never, ever, ever, ever want to compete with me. Like ever.”

[jessmartin]

As the story progresses can't wait to see Jennifer branded and fucked like a hot slave girl, but most of all can't wait for the same to happen to Taylor, a nice pair of hot and sexy ponygirls for Mason to play with as he pleases, I think Taylor's employees will be thrilled with their boss's change in status.

[Jim927]

Another great chapter. I love where this story is going and all the future possibilities that you have built into it. Please keep the chapters coming.

[Malvis]

What a wonderufl chapter again. It can be felt that you give the persons more detail and depth and you stray from the patterns of the past and the Big D. This feels like a fresh start with new characters and Taylor is such a surprise so powerful and yet again to see how Jenn sinks deeper, how quickly she becomes whatever number is in store for her. And Taylor is so her counterpart not submissive in any way but so wonderfully malicious and dominant. And Mason in betwen surely torn in desire. That might be an initeresting point to pick up. Great read!

3447

[cardman314]

I am loving it. The pacing and detail make the reader long for the next episode. There are so many possibilities as to where you might take this story, I can't wait. I'm loving the raw, animalistic approach to Southern slavery as opposed to the almost refined world of the computerized Big D universe. I am so stuck on reading all the stories I can find; I can't motivate myself to get back to writing the three storylines I've left hanging. Izzy's Ponygirl Adventure on Deviant Art has me hanging on as well.

[Belinda]

Joe just awesome work. I am a very successful retired accounting firm executive. My submissive fantasies my whole life so follow the women you portray. I have always thought myself to be odd with these thoughts as I went through life. Thank you so much for validating my hidden desires.
Yours truly,
Belinda

[Malvis]

I am loving it. The pacing and detail make the reader long for the next episode. There are so many possibilities as to where you might take this story, I can't wait. I'm loving the raw, animalistic approach to Southern slavery as opposed to the almost refined world of the computerized Big D universe. I am so stuck on reading all the stories I can find; I can't motivate myself to get back to writing the three storylines I've left hanging. Izzy's Ponygirl Adventure on Deviant Art has me hanging on as well.

That is so right. Joe is able to leave the old ways and give us so many possibilities where this coudl be going. A strong female character, the dirty grounds, all the raw pleasure and the uncertainty in the air like the special ingredients harvested from the slaves. This is wonderfully exciting!

[Mr. Smith]

I to liked the change of pace with the description of the terrified red-headed slave girl being sold in the circle and peeing herself when whipped. The rural auction sales process is definitely not as sexually charged as what we find at the Big D or other high-end slave markets. This fear is a good reminder of what is at stake.

[jeepster]

Awesome work Joe! After my stroke it always takes me a while to write anything!!

[Malvis]

Hmm, I am wondering who owns the auction house? Might a certain daddy of a certain blond have any stakes? Can she delay the registration so that Jennifer is kept overnight? Sold on Saturday or maybe the next Tuesday? Having more time with Mason while Jennifer is away?

[jeepster]

Who's Brittany?

[Malvis]

Who's Brittany?

Taylor

[jeepster]

Who's Brittany?

Taylor

Ahh thanks!

[Mr. Smith]

It would be more fun if they were twins. Imagine the possibilities.

I'd love to see Taylor running Jennifer through an impromptu ponygirl training for Mason. No need for the special hoof/boots, but the anal plug tail is a must. No pierced nipples for the bells, we have nipple clamps for the bells although that might be a tad uncomfortable for Jennifer, I mean California Girl. Ponygirls need their horse names. No need for the fancy collar that makes a human sound like a horse; the bridle will shut her up, make her drool all over her titties, and come with blinders. No need for a fancy arm binder, there's plenty of rope in rural Alabama. Taylor could attach a line to California Girlr's bridle and run her around in circles learning to trot with ample use of the whip if the knees aren't high enough. Jennifer is a fitness buff after all so 30 minutes of HIT ponygirl training should be a piece of cake.

[Malvis]

It would be more fun if they were twins. Imagine the possibilities.

I'd love to see Taylor running Jennifer through an impromptu ponygirl training for Mason. No need for the special hoof/boots, but the anal plug tail is a must. No pierced nipples for the bells, we have nipple clamps for the bells although that might be a tad uncomfortable for Jennifer, I mean California Girl. Ponygirls need their horse names. No need for the fancy collar that makes a human sound like a horse; the bridle will shut her up, make her drool all over her titties, and come with blinders. No need for a fancy arm binder, there's plenty of rope in rural Alabama. Taylor could attach a line to California Girlr's bridle and run her around in circles learning to trot with ample use of the whip if the knees aren't high enough. Jennifer is a fitness buff after all so 30 minutes of HIT ponygirl training should be a piece of cake.

A lovely image. Maybe we are going to see it. Taylor giving Jennifer a taste of traing while Mason watches and still fights with his desire to protect Jennifer and his hard on from seeing her like this.

[RegressedNegress]

I've gotten more soggy, stinky panties while juicing to Joe's stories than I can count and adding more now with this chapter ... And since Taylor entered the story ... Well, I guess I never figured I could get triggered watching the KC Chiefs play ...

[imreadonly2]

Malvis actually wrote a wonderful continuation to the story, which I am editing, and which I hope to post sometime next week. Traveling this weekend, so no progress until then! But thanks for your encouragement, as it is greatly appreciated, as is Malvis's wonderful contribution and continuation. More Taylor to come!

[Greyman]

“No, I’ll figure it out, I guess. I’m a lawyer, you know,” Mason replied, his voice dripping with his courtroom arrogance.

I definitely heard ominous music playing in my head when I read this line.

[jeepster]

“No, I’ll figure it out, I guess. I’m a lawyer, you know,” Mason replied, his voice dripping with his courtroom arrogance.

I definitely heard ominous music playing in my head when I read this line.

Yeah not looking good for Jennifer!

[Mr. Smith]

Malvis wrote,

A lovely image. Maybe we are going to see it. Taylor giving Jennifer a taste of traing while Mason watches and still fights with his desire to protect Jennifer and his hard on from seeing her like this.

Remember, Jennifer should be bent over the breeding bench and used in front of an audience to give her a true ponygirl experience. Preferably next to another ponygirl for a side-by-side breeding. Being sandwiched between two other sweating wriggling ponygirls consumed by their slave heat would be an excellent real-world experience. That could be Mason breeding her or Mason and another person or persons. Now if they have one of those fancy collars that turns human words and sounds into horse sounds it would be interesting to hear the call of the ponygirl when she announces her slave-gasm with a loud shrill whiny. On another note, the tail plug hair needs to be secured to keep it out of her slave snatch. It can be either folded or the plug removed making yet another hole available for breeding. Trust me, that hair feels awful for both parties if it gets in there. Just an observation.

I would note that there are breeding benches in most break rooms in any good-sized slave market operating in the continental United States. Employee morale is important, and giving a cute slave a test drive benefits employees and any future owners.