Shannon and Sean, Pt. 02

[Carl Bradford]

(This story is set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is commonplace—usually as punishment for serious crime, foreclosure when a person pledged his/her body as collateral for a loan and was then unable to pay, or in this instance voluntary self-indenture. Eighteen years of age is the minimum for anyone in this world to be enslaved or have any intimate/sexual contact with slaves. Thanks to Joe Doe for helpful suggestions. This is pure fantasy; please don’t try this at home, even if you know some young people who need some sense knocked into them.)

(Sean O’Brien’s perspective)

I was slave naked, collared, gagged, butt-plugged, and kneeling in an oversized poodle cage with my wrists zip-tied behind my back, after which they, along with my two ankles, had been restrained to the back of the cage. My genitals had been shorn of hair, making me appear much younger than my 18 years, even if my half-erect prick DID look longer. I had no control over the cage as it slid back and forth inside the darkened and chilly back of a panel van. In turn, that van was rolling down an unknown highway to an uncertain fate that probably involved me becoming a pony boy, a tacked up, nearly-naked beast of burden and occasional sex toy for whoever controlled me, no matter how repellent I might find her or (ugh) him. That destination, mentioned only vaguely by an Amazonian slave wrangler who had stretched my rear passage with the plug, explained why my unidentified new owner had required my chest to be pierced with two large and painful metal rings, still smarting just behind my nipples. At that moment they were the ONLY parts of me that felt smart—the rest of me was convinced that I was terminally dumb to voluntarily agree to a year of slavery.

Next to me was a similar cage containing another restrained, shaved, nude, and pierced slave, one that (except for her curves and long hair) bore a considerable resemblance to me, my twin sister Shannon. With our parents dead in a traffic accident, our wealthy grandfather had insisted that we “learn some discipline” by spending the ultimate “gap year” away from college as self-indentured slaves. We could have refused, but then he would have cut us out of the will. Today was still only the first day of that servitude, and already we’d experienced real humiliation at the Longhorn Slave Market, sold into bondage at a place where we were (or had been and someday would be again—slaves have no property) part owners. Just the thought of the public sex display I’d put on with Shannon two hours earlier caused my dick to swell and grow painfully; I wished there was some way I could get my hands free to give myself some relief.

I had always known that Shannon was a cute female child who grew into a voluptuous goddess—long honey-blond hair, high cheekbones, generous mouth, flawless skin, tanned and taut body, tits and ass to die for. No surprise that she had been head cheerleader at our high school and a varsity cheerleader even as a freshman at the college where we’d just finished our first semester. For years, I had done my best NOT to be a pervert about my twin—resolutely resisting the temptation to peek at her body in the shower or at the pool, let alone day-dream about how much fun it would be to fondle and penetrate her.

Then, in our very first day of slavery, someone destroyed all my mental reservations by demanding that we put on a 69 display in the middle of the Longhorn’s gift shop! I’m only human, folks. The best I can say is that I licked her to orgasm at the same moment her lips and tongue had provoked my white protein discharge down her lovely throat. I could only hope that wherever we were headed would not ask for a repeat performance. In fact, most slavers deliberately deprived their livestock of sexual relief, believing that “sluts” were more docile and less scheming if their minds were pre-occupied with achieving orgasm.

After what seemed like hours of crouching in that uncomfortable, demeaning, and powerless position, I became aware that the van had finally slowed, apparently leaving the highway. The humming of the tires on asphalt gave way to the crunch of gravel. Twenty more minutes and innumerable turns followed before it paused and slowly backed up, the reverse signal “beeping” moronically. The engine shut off and a few minutes later, the rear doors were thrown open. Next, a forklift removed our cages, turned around 180 degrees, and deposited them on cold concrete. (I just assumed the concrete was cold, given that everything else was chilly in December at this unidentified Texas building. Thirty seconds later, my knees confirmed my assumption as my dick started to shrivel from the cold.) The next sounds I heard were two “beeps” indicating that someone had electronically scanned the bills of lading on the outside of our cages. Of all the symbols that indicated slaves were property rather than human beings, that sound, when we were transferred to a new inventory like two loaves of cheap bread, was the most humiliating.

I felt rather than saw someone cutting the zip ties that secured my wrists (still bound together) and ankles to the cage. A booted and blue-jeaned pair of legs unlocked and swung open the cage door, after which a loud but vaguely feminine voice directed:

“Crawl forward until you reach the red line on the floor, then STOP and DO NOT MOVE again without permission.”

Still gagged, I was unable to talk, so I did my best to comply, aware out of the corner of my eye that my sister was moving beside me, her magnificent ta-tas swaying as she crawled on her knees. Once again, I felt pity that she had to be a helpless female in such an environment where I was unable to protect her, but then I became aware (trying to look around without obviously moving my head) that most of the clothed, free people in sight were also women. I had been intimidated by the imposing female slave wranglers at the Longhorn. However, the people on this ranch, few of whom were as big as Mistress Willow (who had goosed my butt while pushing me around the slave market, casually warning me to “get over” having to suck cock) were nonetheless attractive, mature women, looking at ME as if I were beneath their contempt. Which was only reality for a fresh-caught slave.

I felt someone cut loose the canvas gag in my mouth before installing leather cuffs on my wrists and then cutting the zip-tie below them. A low but very feminine voice ordered “Up, boy” and lifted on my left forearm to hurry me into the vertical. In a moment, I found myself sitting on a work bench next to my sister, who looked as defenseless and worried as I felt. Somebody who dressed like a cowboy but talked like a physician gently examined our freshly-cut nipple piercings before spraying them with antiseptic and pain killer, then covering them with gauze and unceremoniously shoving a small tube of liquid antibiotic into our months, demanding we each swallow.

When this rough-and-ready substitute for a slave veterinarian pronounced us healthy, I heard the same loud female voice from earlier instruct him—"while you’re at it, might as well give them their first shots. The filly is already well developed, so just give her 5 cc’s of horny juice in each boob; based on the weight in his records, the stallion looks like he needs about 20 cc’s of stud juice in the butt.” Unable to resist in any way, I found myself abruptly hauled off the bench, turned around, and upended over it, fully exposing my defenseless ass. A cold antiseptic wipe touched my butt briefly, after which a sharp needle went into my upraised left buttock. Ordinarily I hate getting shots, but I wanted to avoid adding to Shannon’s alarm, so I stifled the usual groan.
Next we were set up as ponies. I’ll spare you the details of how these women pushed us around. Suffice it to say that I could not have resisted even if I had tried. Before I could blink, each of us had thigh-high boots with small horseshoes on the soles, plus a canvas tube restraining our forearms, parallel to each other, behind our backs. An elaborate head harness held a large bit between our teeth, with reins at each end leading behind our backs (a second set of reins, running through our nipple rings, weren’t added until a week later, when the wounds had healed.) Tight waist restraints compressed our bellies but only emphasized the protruding bare buttocks at a result—despite my misery I couldn’t help remarking how fabulous Shannon’s muscular butt looked when outlined like that. Her waist covering extended upward to provide quarter-cup supports to her breasts.

I thought the worst step was the installation of chastity belts, each connected with a cord across our “taints” to the center of our waists behind us—a mesh triangle for her and a #@$%& cock harness for me (the only thing worse than having an ice bag held against my dick for 3 minutes, forcing me to shrink down there, was the nearly-constant pain whenever I got an erection thereafter.) PLUS the ring at the scrotum end of this monstrosity could shock me where it really hurt. Meanwhile, someone strapped bulky collars around our necks, collars that not only could shock us but also translated whatever we said into horse sounds ranging from whinnies to snorts. We were now completely dumb animals, not that it mattered—no one ever wanted a slave’s opinion.

Shannon and I had done our best to accept this treatment and all the restraints, but she started crying quietly when one of the wranglers cut her long blond side tresses, of which she was very proud, leaving a ponytail in the back while the short hair on the sides of her head looked almost like a guy’s haircut. I didn’t understand that shearing—we expected to be used as sex objects, but why would someone deliberately mar her beauty?
Her tears provoked almost the only gesture of compassion on the part of our captors. The older, dark-haired woman, whom I later learned was the stable boss, Mary Jacobs, made a shushing sound like a mother and gently hugged and rubbed the helpless filly who had begun the day as my sister. “Don’t worry, Shamrock,” she murmured in a reassuring tone. “You’ll soon have your beautiful hair back, but we need those tresses to make proper ponytails for both of you.”

(You guessed it—the next morning, when we were again tacked up for another exhausting day of “horsing around,” BOTH of us got long, blond ponytails, held in place in our tails by butt plugs! It took quite a while to adjust to the dual sensations of stuffed colons and all that soft hair rubbing against our butts and inner thighs. When they first shoved that monster up my keyster, I whined, causing one of the female wranglers to laugh, “A butt virgin? You’d better get used to taking it up the ass every day, my cute little slave boy. If I don’t miss my guess, you’re going to make some master’s dick REAL happy with that pretty mouth and tush.” Tears welled up in my eyes as she inflated the dildo to make a tight fit in my backside. It was not falling out, that was for sure.)

Back to that first day at the ranch. One more horror—After the hair shearing, Mistress Mary (who was indeed “quite contrary” where we were concerned) looked us over, running her hands casually over our rear ends and thereby giving me my first experience of blue balls and bent prick in my new chastity belt. She remarked in passing that “Ordinarily, we’d give you the Spinning Wheel brand right now, but since you’re only being trained here, your owner asked us to hold off on branding for another day.” Saying which, she gave each of us a hand spank so sharp that I imagined her handprint was visible right where I would have been branded. Oh, well, at least no branding to add to the misery, not for the moment, anyhow! The hard slap on my ass was meant to demonstrate her total power over me, including the fact that when and where my ass got branded would be her decision and my (as yet unidentified) owner’s, not mine. For some strange reason that thought made my cock stir, at least until the cage caught me, preventing me from even taking pleasure in
my helpless submission.

After strapping us into these strange arrangements, we were given the privilege of mid-day eating—I can hardly term it a meal. The food itself wasn’t bad—some kind of warm stew, mostly vegetables but with a few random pieces of chicken mixed in. However, once again, as at the Longhorn, we had to eat on our knees, wrists bound behind us and a wrangler periodically pushing our faces into the stew dish or into a water dish (which at least removed some of the food stuck to my face). Nutritious but undignified and hardly appetizing.

Next, the wranglers seemed determined to work us to death. I had thought I was in fairly good shape, and Shannon ran even more miles every week than did I. Still, when you’re running on a treadmill with your hands behind your back, plus in this case a leash tied around the base of the scrotum and connected to the machine in front of you, it’s more than a little difficult. I was terrified of tripping and de-balling myself. Besides, Mistress Mary and the other females supervising us began to insist that we lift our knees high with every pace. They started out fairly slow, but soon cranked up the treadmills to four or five miles per hour. After half an hour of this, Shannon and I were staggering, barely keeping up with the machines. At least we didn’t need to worry about the cold—not until they let us take a rest, when the sweat I’d produced quickly cooled me down, even inside the barn where we were exercising.

Treadmill, break, stretching, practice walking, and back again all afternoon. Especially during the practice walking, we got whacked on the butt or zapped electrically whenever our “forelegs” failed to come to perfectly horizontal on each step.

It must have been about 5 p.m. when the stable boss called it a day, but only after she had dispassionately and thoroughly critiqued us as being spoiled, overweight, out of shape, inattentive, and not very bright. Once again, I certainly didn’t feel very smart on reflecting that I had voluntarily let myself in for such treatment!

After that, a female wrangler, her fingers WAY up our ass cracks, walked us into separate “stalls”—the stalls were actually almost civilized, each with a cot, blankets, shower, sink, and toilet. My keeper, Mistress Joanne, managed to fondle me thoroughly while removing all of my tack EXCEPT the shock collars (neck and dick) and that fracking chastity belt. Of course, her toying with me only made my tired body try to pump more blood into my groin—ouch again. She told me I had 45 minutes to shower, relieve myself, and drink water, after which she expected me to kneel in “Slave Spread,” facing the gate to the stall—which gate she kept locked. I managed to clean myself up and assume the required position; although naked and exposed, it felt good to be able, at least temporarily, to move my arms. Being slightly rested, I couldn’t help reflecting that Joanne was a VERY attractive woman—brown hair, at least 5 foot 9, quite muscular and wearing skin-tight jeans and blouse. It just seemed too bad my dick wasn’t free to invite her to play!

When she came back, she did play, but it wasn’t much fun for me. First, she cuffed my hands in front of me, had me lie on my back on the cot, and then used locks and a chain to tether my wrists over my head. My ankles were similarly restrained at the bottom corners of the cot, leaving me open and helpless. Only then did she unlock and remove that chastity belt, after which she gave me a leisurely groping and hand job that—of course!—stopped just short of letting me ejaculate. For five minutes she just talked to me, instructing me on the duties of a pony without touching me. When she resumed her edging, it got even worse—this time, the female wrangler casually removed her blouse and bra to reveal a pair of good sized and perky breasts. She wasn’t as well endowed as my sister, and in fact on a woman of her height her boobs—probably B cups—looked almost small, but she drove me crazy with them, casually bending over to drag them across my face and even rub my straining dick into her cleavage! By now, I’d spent a day and a half in an environment of highly-sexualized slavery, but had only come once. It's a good thing that the cot was bolted to the floor or I would have flipped it over, and heavy knows that would have hurt my erection even more.

“Nice set of balls on you,” she remarked, talking more to herself than to me. “I hope they let you keep ‘em,” she added casually, which prompted my eyes to bulge with fear. “I might have Mary test your seed, and if you got good swimmers, we’ll tie you up to the milking machine once a week or so. High quality slave ejaculate is a nice little side business, and fun for you, although the machine settings will probably drive you crazy. Gets a bigger load if they tease you for a while, especially with a shock dildo up your tail, or so the vets say. I dunno. I do think our slave vet is a real bitch, she just loves clipping male slaves.”

They had to know that I was only a temporary slave. I had heard horror stories about indentures who “accidentally” lost their nuts. Texas law frowned upon gelding, although the fine was minimal and the compensation was limited to $1000, which was less than I had paid for my alligator boots.
Meanwhile, her on-again, off-again teasing continued for what seemed like forever, but was probably only 45 minutes. At the end, she casually stretched her arms over her head, causing her naked breasts to rise up—Damn, that woman looked fine!—then teasingly restored her clothing and went out, leaving me naked and helpless, my erection doing an excellent imitation of a pink flagpole. I should have guessed what came next—she returned with another bag of ice that promptly and painfully killed my hard on. Then she released my ankles, had me roll on my side, and used her finger and thumb to point my dick at a chamber pot kind of thing to urinate. Only after that did she re-install the chastity belt, release my wrists, and lock me into the stall for the night. On the way out, she told me that an alarm would go off early tomorrow morning—at that time I would have 20 minutes to fold my blankets, relieve myself, brush my teeth, and don my boots and waistband thing before waiting in Slave Spread for someone to restrain my arms and re-install the head harness. It's a good thing I was exhausted, otherwise I would never have gotten any sleep, thinking about her edging.

*****

(Shannon O’Brien’s perspective)

I was about to lose it when they started cutting my hair; the stable boss reassuring me led me to hope this year might be survivable. I had expected humiliation and sex, but exercising in such strange restraints was a bit much.

That evening, after they removed my tack (but not that chastity belt) and allowed me to shower, I felt much better. That is, I WAS feeling better until three male wranglers showed up. Before I knew it, I was restrained on my back, with my rear end at one end of the cot, ankles tied to the cot legs, and cuffed hands stretched out over my head and tied to the other end. Think about it—I was completely naked and helpless, at the mercy of three rather hunky male strangers.

Who proceeded to use me in almost every way imaginable. One guy straddled my chest, whipped out a rather substantial dick, and proceeded to jerk himself off between my boobs—at least he was careful not to jar my tender pierced nipples. A second guy then installed a ring gag to hold my mouth open, straddled my HEAD and—well, you get the idea. Under other circumstances, I might almost have enjoyed licking such a prodigious probe, but with my mouth blocked open all I could do was lick a little while attempting to breathe around the intruder despite the weight on my ribcage.

I was unable to see anything, but suddenly felt the chastity belt pulled away and a warm tongue bathing my labia. Too bad whoever it was didn’t keep going long enough for me to climax; instead, the tongue suddenly disappeared, to be replaced with a hard, warm penis thrusting all the way up to my cervix. Mmm, I thought I could get used to that. Yet, before I could really get aroused, dick number two suddenly exploded down my throat, at which point that dick-head announced “Switch.” The other two guys withdrew, and apparently they traded positions, because the next thing in my mouth tasted remarkably like my own cunt juices (don’t ask me how I recognized that), while another swinging Richard, presumably the one that had been between my boobs, shifted down to impale my birth canal and I felt a rather limp, sticky one between my breasts, where it rapidly regained stiffness. Each of them took the time to call me every demeaning term they could think of, such as slut, skank, whore, bimbo, bitch, and so on—trouble was, I was so turned on that I had to agree with their assessment! Too bad I didn’t get the fun of being so promiscuous.

They kept trading positions, and I can’t remember how many loads I swallowed. What I DO know is that they never allowed me to get even close to my own orgasm, while these guys had a fine old time using every inch of the fallen cheerleader. I prayed no one was filming this, as it would have made a fantastic porno film while Slave Shannon (or I guess I’d been renamed Shamrock) got thoroughly ravaged.

And when they were finished and released me, two of them held my arms while making me rinse off in the shower, then had me use the toilet, after which they restored the chastity belt and left me thoroughly frustrated. I guess I could have gotten off by playing with my breasts, but my pierced nipples hurt too much. It took an hour to calm down and fall asleep.

The ensuing weeks were more of the same—every day we were worked until we dropped, sometimes inside the barn or—when the weather permitted—outside, pulling light sulkies like the beasts we had become. Every night I got used and teased sexually, but was rarely allowed to climax. Once a week I got horny juice shots that, on top of all this edging, drove me bats___ crazy and left me sleepless all night. I wanted to explode, but the horniness made me so distracted that I could barely think, let alone resist. I gathered that Sean (renamed Shay) got the same treatment, although we rarely got a chance to say anything without bits in our mouths and voice boxes on our necks.

Really outsized plugs held our tails, decorated with my vandalized tresses, into our butts, which just increased the discomfort. Those plugs were removed periodically so that cold enemas could flush out our large intestines; I was eating like a horse (surprise!) because of all the calories I burned, but all that happened was that my body got tighter and firmer than it had already been. Damn, I thought several times—if I ever survive this I should be the best-looking cheerleader on campus without even dieting!

More significantly, I got a good sense of what it was like to be a slave or even, for that matter, a low-wage laborer. I had almost no control over my life, but was subject to the arbitrary actions—sometimes good, sometimes frustrating—of the people who controlled me and who were, for all practical purposes, both my employers and my owners.

After about ten days of healing—carefully supervised by the cowboy version of a vet—our nipple rings got put to work by running a second set of reins from the mouth bit through the nipple rings and back to the driver. I did notice that there were springs in those reins that slightly reduced the tension placed on us, but believe me, when someone hauled on my “tit reins” I would do anything to end the pain!

Funny thing. A few days after the new reins were installed, I came to a form of mental peace. I was still hornier than the worst slut I had ever heard about, and the guys using my body confirmed their belief that I was becoming both eager and really good as a receptacle for their dicks. I didn’t even try to object when they started adding my anus as a 4th stop in their round-the-world evening sex tour. By that time, I had adjusted to the butt plug so well that their dicks only added pleasure to my use, but I still felt some residual shame when the wranglers talked among themselves about how much “the whore-pony” enjoyed the feel of a cock rammed up her ass. VERY occasionally they allowed me to climax—that kind of rare reinforcement was much more effective than the unremitting edging that they had begun with. I quickly became eager to do almost anything to get off.

But being rode hard all day and rode by three hards at night actually became my new normal, to the point where “Shamrock” was almost prancing every morning when we started pony training again, then eagerly lay down and spread or knelt down to offer her ass or mouth on command. And when I was harnessed tandem with Shay—er, Sean—he seemed equally happy to be just a horny draft animal. If you had told me three months ago that we would turn into such cooperative sluts, I would have never believed it—yes, I liked sex and I’m sure my brother did too, but this training motivated us to do almost ANYTHING to get laid, without any sense of shame. About the only thing they didn’t try—thank heavens—was having him fuck his sister (confession time: I was so horny by that time that, on the rare occasions when I saw him without his chastity belt, I actually thought about how good that big dick would feel in my mouth or between my labia.)

After that, if we were VERY good and our lap times improved, we were intermittently rewarded on the mounting stands. For me, that meant being bound, bent over and blindfolded, while the ranch’s prize stallion, known as “Stud” (what is it with people and these “S” names? Must be related to “Spinning Wheel.”) would first sample my mouth and then come around behind me on the stand to fuck my brains out! Granted, there weren’t many brain cells left to expel, but it was such a joy to be screwed to orgasm by that massive shaft that I would do absolutely anything if Mistress Mary or one of her wranglers promised me another trip to the mounting stand. I gather that my brother got the equivalent treatment, being allowed to unload several days’ worth of accumulated jism inside some other horny filly!

*****
(Sean O’Brien’s perspective)

I admit it—this stallion was broken. If grandfather was trying to show us the evils of an ordinary slave’s or worker’s life, he had succeeded in spades! I’d lost track of how long we’d been there, but after perhaps a month I was in the best shape of my life, and would willingly do anything I was asked for the promise of another chance to mount a woman or otherwise get off. Of course, part of that eagerness was in response to the weekly injections as well as the nightly fondling and teasing that Mistress Joanne gave me, edging me to the point of insanity. And I knew she was aware of the effect she had—she began to have another wrangler, armed with a shock baton, standing nearby whenever she removed my restraints, probably anticipating that I might attack her and damn the consequences.

One night, when I was once again restrained to the cot and the topless wrangler was teasing me, even allowing my rigid dick to slide between her boobs, she shifted her dialogue and began to address me directly, asking me what I would do if she were willing to fuck me. I should have sensed a trick, since she had no reason to allow me between her legs, but I was so horny that I promised to do anything at all.

“Well, first,” she said with a lascivious smile, “you’d need to turn over and use that tongue of yours to give me at least three orgasms.” I eagerly nodded assent, and cooperated eagerly when she had me roll over, allow her to restrain my ankles in that position, and then “bend like an inchworm” in my middle, ostensibly so she had enough room to sit on the end of the bench where my head usually lay. I was mesmerized by the sight of her pussy as she calmly removed her boots and jeans, piling them neatly by the door. I thought it was odd that she removed my pillow and pushed it under my upraised groin, but by that time I was so mindlessly horny that I was not about to say anything that might annoy her.

For the next 15 or 20 minutes—I don’t know how long, really—I buried my face between her soft, fragrant thighs and eagerly followed her instructions about cunnilingus. In between her own climaxes, she told me that this was part of the curriculum to train me how to service a female owner. But after the third orgasm, squirting all over my face, she stopped suddenly. Instead of sliding underneath me she calmly stood up and reached into a large canvas bag she had brought with her that night.

You guessed it—she produced a bottle of anal lube and a strap-on harness, with the latter soon wrapped around her lovely body and centered just below her pelvic bone. This rig was double-ended, too, with one shaft going into her birth canal while she lubricated the other, longer end. It probably wasn’t much larger than the dildo that Mistress Willow had made me swallow at the slave market, but—knowing where that thing was headed—I thought it was the biggest dick I had ever seen. Before I knew it, she was kneeling between my bound legs, obviously preparing to skewer me.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised, Shay. I promised to fuck you if you licked me, and I keep my promises. Haven’t you ever wanted to put your little dickie up some poor girl’s rear end?”

(Gulp). “Yes, mistress,” I replied, “but that thing looks huge.”

“This shaft?” She snickered. “Hell, I chose the smallest one in our toolkit to break you in. And unlike those horny little college girls you’ve been sodomizing, you’ve already had your butt well stretched by four weeks of wearing a ponytail. So relax! Now that you’ve practiced cunnilingus to serve a free woman, you also need to be ready to take one up the Hershey Highway if a guy wants to use you for what his wife won’t allow. Or maybe the wife wants to use you herself, to establish who’s in charge. Other than pony racing, pussy licking, and butt sex, what else are male slaves for?”

Put like that, I could tell there was no sense arguing—she was determined to take my last virginity, and I was in no position to make her angry. To be fair, Mistress Joanne was very slow and patient. Once she popped that monster past my anus, she pushed in a fraction of an inch before pausing for a minute to rub my back. Gradually, she worked her way in—before I knew it, I became aware of the leather harness against my buttocks while her firm boobs pressed into my back. And then I felt her arms around me, releasing that damn chastity harness. My penis felt as if it grew two feet in as many seconds. Her warm little hands began fondling my cock and balls as she slowly pumped that dildo in and out of my well-stretched bottom hole. After a minute, I was able to ALMOST ignore the strap-on while I revelled in the dual sensations of a woman’s breasts and mouth pressing onto my back while those hands teased me, fondled me, and for the first time didn’t stop, allowing me to blast three days’ load all over that poor pillow. The whole time her sexy voice was cooing and praising me—at least, I think it was a compliment when she called me a “great piece of ass!” Damn; the release was almost worth the shafting, and I made a mental note to think about this adventure to distract myself if an actual man ever used me back there. Another lesson: there were apparently rewards to be had even in the most humiliating of situations, and a little kindness went a very long way in satisfying me.

Soon after that, the Spinning Wheel apparently decided that we were fully trained, although Mistress Mary only entered us in a few obscure races, which was fine with me—I was having fun but had enough sense to realize that the more often we were in public, the more likely we were to be recognized by someone who knew us. Instead, we spent most of our weekends being rented out by visitors to the ranch. This usually consisted of towing the visitors out to one of the swimming ponds, where the visitors would either swim or play with the ponies, or both. (Sometimes it was too chilly for actual swimming in early spring, but those women loved to tease me and the other males.) More than once, as I jogged quickly up to a picnic area, I saw Shamrock on her knees, nipples erect and arms still restrained behind her back as she leaned forward, frantically trying to bogart a cock on some overweight guy. (She later told me that what she really enjoyed was being bound across the back of the sulky while the guy or guys who had rented her did their best to fill BOTH of her holes (renters who asked got the keys to chastity belts).

I sometimes got frustrated when free women would tie my reins to a tree while they went skinny-dipping in a pond or (if it was too cold) just sunbathing in the altogether, enjoying the chance to tease a muscular guy who could do nothing but paw the ground and whinny disconsolately.

We went out for carriage rides, rain or shine, as the sulkies and carriages were enclosed so the drivers stayed dry even as their ponies got SOAKED in the cold spring rains and resulting mud. One day when it was coming down cats and dogs, I was surprised when someone walked down the line, inspecting each pony for a drive. Who would want to go out in this weather, I wondered? I got my answer the hard way when she chose me; the sadistic bitch took me for a hard run through the mud and up steep hills, all the while whipping my bottom with a wicked (and probably illegal) multi-tail whip that she had concealed in a large purse. I thought she would be in trouble when the wranglers saw how badly he had skinned my ass, but after a large cash tip they wished her on her way. Apparently she was a regular who liked to take the new stallions out on rainy days, for a sizable “extra fee.” For once, I didn’t enjoy Mistress Joanne’s hands fondling my butt as she rubbed a cream into it, but I felt a strange sense of pride when she complimented me for “earning some good money today, stud.”

Of course, being rental ponies like that increased the risk that we would be recognized, and eventually it happened to me: one day I got taken out by a single woman with a nice body who looked vaguely familiar but I couldn’t place her. When she stripped down and went for a swim my cock really strained against that @#$&% belt.

Finally, she sat down on a picnic table after maneuvering me onto my knees. Unable to fuck her, I was at least glad to use my tongue and lips to bring her quickly.

And then she shocked me, not because she grabbed my head to pull me even tighter but because she moaned “Oooh, Sean, what you do to me.”
I sat back, my mouth covered in her fluids, both of us looking startled and embarrassed.

“You don’t recognize me, do you, Sean? I’m Amy Richards. I know, I know, ‘the fat girl’ from high school. God, I used to have such a crush on you. Only, it seems as if both of us have undergone some major changes. I finally got my metabolism under control and lost 60 pounds while you . . . well, I never expected to see you in a collar, but you’re even more handsome and muscular than you used to be.”

I couldn’t speak English, of course, so there was no way to explain what I was doing here as a slave pony for hire. She assured me that she wasn’t going to tell anyone—“who would believe me, anyway?” In return, though, she asked me for what she could have just taken. I ended up on my back, which wasn’t very comfortable with my forearms still bound parallel to each other, but the payoff was worth it—that darling girl Amy unlocked my belt, climbed on top of me, and rode her pony until we both climaxed, at which point she fell forward and kissed me deeply. Then she discovered that, thanks to the Stud Juice, my dick was still hard.

Tittering happily with a “Giddyap” she rode me longer, for an even more intense climax than the last. With a mischievous look in her eyes, Amy scooted up, planting her messy muff over my mouth and sat on my face. She giggled “Get to work, slave boy,” and I did without hesitation. In a flurry of activity I licked that kitty clean, getting another stiffy along the way. Well, she took pity on me and rode me to yet a third orgasm to drain me completely. To this date, I still don’t know who was happier, me for getting off three times or Amy because I came three times with HER. Amy had fulfilled one of her fantasies, and I at least got temporary relief from the terminal horniness that the ranch had instilled in me. In fact, I promised myself to look her up when I regained my freedom; pussy like that doesn’t grow on trees, and besides she was a nice gal whom I had overlooked because of her appearance. I guess I really WAS arrogant.

On another occasion, a couple rented me to pull them to the far swimming hole. I could tell the woman was sizing me up, fondling my muscles and so on even before we left the barn. Once we arrived, I got to feel how Shannon felt as a mare—the two of them unhitched me and then tied me bent over the back of the sulky. I couldn’t see what was going on, but I was worried when I heard the SNAP of someone pulling on a rubber glove, after which my tailplug was pulled so that two fingers might coat the inside of my colon.

I was really worried that the guy was about to corn-hole me, but then somebody actually unlocked my chastity belt. At least my ego, if not my anus, was relieved to realize that the WOMAN was shafting me with a strap-on. And then, thank the lord, I felt a small, soft hand giving me a “reach around” as she pounded my back door for about five minutes. Not my favorite thing, of course, but Mistress Joanne had taught me to get some enjoyment out of being pegged.

Needless to say, my cock, which was free for the first time in days, was THRILLED by the attention, and inflated despite the “pain in the ass” she gave me. Imagine my frustration when the woman suddenly removed her hand and dismounted, leaving me mentally straining but completely frustrated.

“Don’t worry, Stud,” I heard her teasing voice as both of them worked to release my restraints. “I just want to save that champion-sized dick so I can use it as I intended.”

A few seconds later, I found out what she meant. They made me lie down, wrists still restrained, with my back against the seat cushion they had removed from the sulky. And then, praise heavens, I realized that she had removed her strap-on harness and was bare below the waist. Not a bad looking woman, either—red hair, huge boobs (without a bra, apparently), and an expression that told me she was as horny as any filly—including Shamrock—on the ranch. Almost casually, the woman straddled my waist, guided my penis between her labia, and then sank down, impaling herself fully. I don’t know which one of us moaned louder!

That woman must have done 100 squat thrusts every day, as indicated by the apparent ease with which she pumped up and down, her breasts swaying as she spewed an unending stream of horniness about what a stud I was, how good my dick felt, and this was the reward that GOOD stallions got for behaving. Neither one of us could last with that kind of physical and mental stimulation; it must have been only three or four minutes before she went rigid just as my over-stressed rod fired its entire load up into her. Then she collapsed, breathing hard, onto my chest. I was still bound, but at least I could feel those magnificent mounds of flesh pressed against me! Talk about pony boy heaven.

A few minutes later, after she recovered a little, she dismounted (my shaft was still slick and partially erect) and then grabbed another cushion and a riding crop from the sulky. She plopped herself down on the cushion with her legs spread giving me a view of her well fucked pussy with my deposit leaking out.
“Get to work dear,” she commanded, and her worm of a husband lay down between her legs and proceeded to dine on her cream pie, lapping up the cream filling I had left behind. “If you do a good job honey, I’ll take your cage off tonight and reward you,” she taunted evilly. The pathetic man enthusiastically got to work with her swatting him from time to time with the riding crop while giving him detailed instructions until she finally blasted off in his face.

All good things come to an end as the woman wiped herself off and slowly dressed again. Without any warning her husband threw a bucket of COLD water at my privates which both removed the stickiness and enabled him to reinstall the chastity belt.

A few minutes later, I was back between the shafts and was pulling them back towards the barn. I thought this was the end of an odd adventure, but there was one more act. On the way back, I couldn’t help listening to her teasing her husband:

"Honey, just imagine if you were my ponyboy how much fun you would have. You could pull me out to the pond and then I would ram your cute little butt AND ride your dick and then have you kneel down to lick me clean. Maybe sometimes I would have another stallion along so you could watch me use him, or if you were very good I might let the two of you spit-roast me! I have an appointment with Dr. Nikki to go over what you being my FINO slave would entail—with the emphasis on ‘TAIL,’ including the one you’d wear for me. I’ll leave you on this ranch for a month or two until you’re a perfectly-trained stallion I can ride! Or, perhaps I should rent both you and another stud, allowing him to mount me while you’re tied to a tree while you watch. This is the spark we need to relight our marriage and I want it. Remember, I put the "obey" in your wedding vows and I want this."

The man hesitated before responding, “Yes, dear. I’d love to be your cuckold ponyboy.”

“What a loser,” I thought. Then again, he wasn’t the one with reins connected to his mouth and nipples, pulling the cart with a tail plug up his ass, … at least, not yet.

*****
(Interlude, Spinning Wheel Ranch office)

Stable master Mary Jacobs and her boss, Lois Spalding, had just finished briefing Mr. O’Brien on how well the twins’ training had gone. They had shown him video of the two, rigged in tandem or as individuals, pulling sulkies around the quarter mile track at a respectable pace. Other scenes showed instant obedience and cooperation in response to commands. Among the videos was one of Shay/Sean, his elbows tied with a rope behind his back climbing onto a breeding stand and enthusiastically seizing and ravaging a pony girl who was bound helplessly; left unspoken but implied was the fact that Shamrock/Shannon undoubtedly received and enjoyed similar treatment on the stand from other stallions.

When the two women finished, the wealthy grandfather handed them a healthy check, already made out to the ranch.

“You’ve done a great job of draining some of the nonsense from my grandchildren,” he remarked. “Now, I need to give them some experience of what it’s like to be exploited as combination ponies, servants, and sluts in the entertainment industry. I want them to recognize how good they had it, so they don’t treat their subordinates, slave or free, like that. I’ll send you the forwarding instructions. Thanks again, Lois—if you want to use me as a reference for straightening spoiled kids out, I’d be happy to oblige.”

Four days later, the hapless twins found themselves once again in poodle cages, although this time they might better be described as pony cages. In addition to the zip-tie restraints securing their wrists and ankles, this time their nipple rings were also attached, with about five inches of flex, to the doors of their cages. After repeated enemas to flush them out, their ponytail plugs had been re-installed, programmed to vibrate on and off at random. At least their chastity belts had been removed, replaced with an extra-large vibrator strapped into her birth canal to keep Shannon distracted while Sean’s dick was exquisitely edged by an advanced-design “fleshlight” that periodically warmed up and rhythmically contracted. As if they weren’t already terminally horny, both ponies had plastic drinking tubes leading into their mouths to keep them lubricated, although they didn’t realize that their water supplies also received a steady drip of horny or stud juice.

When the delivery driver reached the airfreight building at the nearest airport, he opened the back doors of the van and was struck by a concentrated odor that reminded him of a woman in heat; both of their genitals were covered with sticky excretions. It was going to be a long flight to Ashville Regional Airport in North Carolina.

(To be continued)

[jeepster]

Wow! Tough love from grandpa! Although it seems to have changed their attitude and outlook!

[Jim927]

Another great chapter, Carl. Grandpa is providing the tough love that it seems the two kids need and they seem to be learning a lot about themselves in the process. I can’t wait to see where you take us and them next. You have an amazing talent for writing and I am so happy that you share it with us.
Jim

[Mr. Smith]

I can see Carl doing a story about the couple where the wife wants to make the husband her FINO ponyboy breaking the mold of stories about submissive female slaves and their sexual escapades. We do not have enough stories from the male perspective which makes getting Sean's perspective so interesting in this story. His how to get a stiffy while servicing older, unattractive women was great. Now I need to get back to writing my stories about the adventures of my female slaves.