Breeding the Pony Girl, Pt. 04

[Carl Bradford]

(This story is set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is commonplace for serious crime, unredeemed debt, or voluntary self-indenture. Eighteen years of age is the minimum for anyone in this world to be enslaved or to have any intimate contact with slaves. This is strictly a FANTASY—in reality, informed consent is always mandatory.)

(Previously: Lois Spalding, the divorced owner of the Spinning Wheel Ranch, became obsessed about masquerading as one of her pony girls so that her prized pony boy stallion, Stud, could mount her with his oversized equipment. Lois’ stable manager and confidante, Mary Jacobs, helped the 29-year-old dress up as Pony Girl Ginger, allowing Stud to shaft her thoroughly fore and aft. Convinced that such role playing would make her boss happy, Mary later suggested kennelling Lois at the Longhorn Slave Market so that she could be branded—an essential disguise for a pretend pony girl—without her ranch staff knowing about it. Torn between the temptation and the risks involved, Lois finally demanded of Mary that she “put your ass where your mouth is.” Reluctantly, Mary arranged to have her husband Bill check BOTH of them in at the Longhorn one Saturday afternoon. The Operations Manager of the slave market, Jesse Foster, and the slave handler/wrangler who accepted custody of the women, Florence Jones, both knew their actual identities. Once stripped, cuffed, and collared, however, Mary and Lois were indistinguishable from other slaves in the Longhorn inventory; their designated wranglers casually ordered the women to provide blowjobs while the men updated their records in the National Slave Registry. Looking at those records probably told the wranglers the identities of the two temporary sluts, but both men were too discrete to say anything. Or maybe they just enjoyed treating free women as slaves.)

(Mary Jacobs’ Perspective)

With their hands goosing our butts, Masters Dave and Josh walked us to the next ordeal we had to encounter—although I imagine Lois thought of it as the next thrill! We were turned over to two pairs of rainsuit-covered wranglers at the showers, aka “Slut Wash.”

One of the four slave-wash experts bore a close resemblance to Florence, the huge woman who had signed us into the Longhorn (I later learned that she was Florence’s sister, Maureen.) Under her direction, Lois and I were quickly strung up, facing each other across the huge wash bay, in the strappado position—ankles restrained so wide apart it was difficult to stand, hands cuffed behind the back and pulled upward by a rope, forcing us to bend over with our torsos parallel to the floor to avoid dislocating our shoulders, leaving our breasts dangling downward. Then the wash crew thoroughly groped and fondled us under the pretext that we needed to be de-loused and washed down.

Except for Maureen, the slut wash wranglers were very youthful-looking young men. You had to be 18 years of age to even enter a slave market, but urban legend had it that young men of that age would work at places like the Longhorn, Big D, and HCI for minimum wage, just to have the opportunity to play with the naked female slaves sent to the showers. The guy working me over certainly took his time grabbing and fondling my breasts, buttocks, clit, and cunt. He even made some remark to the effect that I was “pretty hot for an old slut”—didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted, but it didn’t matter anyway as he took whatever pleasure he could out of toying with the “old slut.” I have to confess that some of his groping turned me on—how often does a 40-something woman get sexual attention from a teenager without any feeling that she was doing something wrong? I felt humiliated but not responsible for what he did to me. I knew that Lois was probably on fire after being “forced” to suck that massive wrangler’s cock. Now, watching my boss’ face I could tell she was really getting off on being the ultimate “carwash cutie” for two guys to probe and arouse. Her nipples were hard (again) and she was wriggling like a cat in heat. Even the sudden injection of warm, medium-pressure water up our colons seemed to thrill her, and again for me it felt a lot more sensual—but no less demeaning—than I had expected.

(Lois Spalding’s perspective)

I thought I was mentally prepared for the Slut Wash, but instead it showed me new dimensions of my own weird mind. Here were these two 18-year-old kids, whom normally I would either ignore or verbally shred if they dared to even look at me. Instead, they were free to play with me in any way they wanted—I imagine their (female) boss might have told them to stop wasting time if they had actually screwed me, but short of that, they had total run of my body. They were my lords and masters, and I was simply a piece of slave meat hung up for their enjoyment. It was infuriating, humiliating . . . and sexy as hell. Even those insensitive louts noticed that my nipples were erect and I was breathing hard—they quite rightly described me as “born to the collar” and “a skanky little bitch who only wants to get her cunt stuffed with our cocks.” Once I got my clothes back on and this collar off, I would avoid this place like a torture chamber, and resume my contemptuous attitude towards young male morons (if that isn’t a redundancy to begin with). Yet somewhere in the back of my mind I would be dreaming of being the sex toy of two pimply-faced guys who treated me like the slut that, at least once in a while, I wanted to be.

I was thrilled when they threatened to butt-fuck me and acted out their fantasy by thrusting a lubricated hose nozzle up my anus. (Nothing they were likely to put there could be much bigger than the cock on my prize stallion, Stud, anyway.) It was not as much fun to hold in that water while we were frog-marched over to sit on toilets, in full view of each other and the wranglers, and then void ourselves. Twice! The complete lack of privacy, not to mention loss of control over my bodily functions, in front of these fools was both humiliating and thrilling.

After the second trip to the commodes, blasts of warm air went far towards drying us off, and the boys (I have to think of them like that, even though they were 18 or older) even used combs to straighten out our damp hair. I’d often heard it before, but this time I felt the impact of the old saying that slaves must be thankful for small favors.

(Mary Jacob’s perspective)

After that, the two body-builder wranglers resumed control and took us off to “dinner”—if you can call it that. Jesse Foster had promised the “authenticity” of being treated like a slave while we were kennelled. I had assumed that he meant that we were subject to sexual use, and so far I had been required to suck off one guy and be felt up and enema’d by another, each of them young enough to be my son (Oh, lord, I thought—what if Bobby ever saw me like this???) Apparently, though, “authenticity” also meant eating like a slave—kneeling on concrete, hands still cuffed behind our backs, faces bent low to swallow tasteless slave chow out of metal dog bowls. I could certainly empathize with the pony girls whom we kept restrained for days on end, although even then we usually fed them vegetable stews rather than slave chow—you can’t pull a cart living on that stuff (If you’ll pardon the blasphemy, woman cannot live on slave chow alone.) Lapping water from a bowl, just like the “bitch” I’d been called all afternoon, was almost as demeaning as eating slave chow.

(Lois Spalding’s perspective)

The expression on Mary’s face after her wrangler dripped cum on it, and again while she was being fondled by a teenager in the Slut Wash, told me that she was getting at least some enjoyment out of our kennelling, so for a moment my regret at insisting that she accompany me had abated. Still, when she lifted her face out a dog bowl, I felt guilty again. I noticed that she had two stray pieces of Slave Chow stuck on her cheek—in a futile gesture of apology, I leaned over and removed those pieces with my tongue.

Unfortunately, her wrangler, Josh, mis-interpreted (perhaps deliberately?) my gesture as “lesbian action,” so he insisted that we move closer together and French kiss. Damn, I thought, I just made things worse for my partner rather than better. I know I’m a kinky sex maniac, but my instincts are heterosexual. Once again, though, as temporary slaves we had to obey instructions or suffer the (literally) shocking consequences. With our breasts rubbing against each other, we kissed very gently then timidly opened up to allow our tongues to touch. I tried with my eyes to apologize to Mary, and she seemed to be saying it was all right. At first, the intimacy and sensations of rubbing and kissing her were comforting, but not particularly erotic. However, I quickly realized that being ordered by a dominant male to kiss her put a different complexion on the matter, somehow cancelling the social taboos against lesbian sex—after all, slaves have no freedom to refuse what in free people would be considered homosexual actions. Mary’s lips were much softer than a man, and there was no irritating stubble on her cheeks. As we continued to press together, she became more aggressive. I realized with a start that, for at least the fourth time that day, my nipples were stiff as erasers and my clit felt the same.

Then Josh and Dave released our wrist cuffs and told us to “69.” I could tell that Mary was just as surprised as I by the idea, so I decided to dive in, hoping to satisfy our masters and give her a little pleasure. I’d never licked a woman down there before, and the memory of that moment still makes me blush. I just tried to do what I remembered some guys doing to me, and she seemed to enjoy it. Mary’s “slave snatch” got wetter as I tongued her, and her first tentative licks on my pussy became more and more invasive. Maybe it was just because I’d never had my face in a cunt before, but the aroma of arousal was quite strong. I guess both of us had hidden bisexual tendencies.

Josh seemed satisfied with our efforts; I think he was just pushing our buttons. When we were done, he and Dave marched us to the toilets and actually freed our hands to use the commodes and rinse our faces. They even gave us sample-sized bottles of mouthwash—another example of slaves learning to appreciate small favors.

After that brief respite, though, it was back into cuffs and off to what I was really dreading, the branding room. I could feel and even smell the heat before we passed through the door, a door decorated with a 9-inch wide burned-in imprint of the Longhorn logo: An outline bull’s head shaped like an isosceles triangle with two long, hooked horns sticked out of the sides. Working with slaves for my adult life, I had seen several women branded in the exact same pattern, usually at an angle to fit the whole thing onto one buttock. For the first time, the reality of what those slaves had experienced struck home.

Inside, a gas-fueled, fan-driven forge was flooding the room with heat, noise, and light. There were two complicated frames of gleaming metal, clearly intended to restrain slaves for branding. And two grinning men dressed as wranglers but with leather aprons; one was in his 40s with a full beard, the other a brown-haired guy in his late 20s or maybe early 30s.

I was surprised when Mary and I were instructed to lie FACE UP on these frames. The four men quickly strapped down all four of my limbs, belly, chest, and neck. I ended up flat on my back, completely spread-eagled and exposed; looking to my left, I saw Mary in a similar position. Then the penny dropped as to why we were face up—oh, yeah, her damn husband signed us up for nipple-piercing, too. If he were here right now I’d have them give him a Prince Albert!

*****

For a minute, everyone stood around, waiting for some unknown next step. Then a lab-coated slave veterinarian hurried in—a pretty, blond woman who appeared to be in her mid-30s. “Dr. Janice Oliver” the nametag said.

“Sorry I’m late,” she seemed to be apologizing to us rather than the four guys—as if we might leave if she took too long to get to the room! Then she efficiently took our blood pressure, temperature, and other vital signs. She remarked that “your heart rates are elevated: they should be somewhere between 65 and 69 at your age, but instead you’re both around 74. But, that’s understandable given your stress levels.” Then the vet produced two rather thick butt plugs and explained that each contained a dose of oxycodone and a little Valium, to be administered rectally for rapid absorption in that area. “This won’t knock you out but should relax you now and reduce the residual pain after your branding. I’ll see you in the morning to check on the wound sites and give you more oxycodone before you leave. The care instructions given to your owners when they pick you up will warn them against giving you too much oxy; you’ve got enough troubles as slaves without becoming addicted.” OK, I thought, in medical terms what was being done to our bodies would create “wounds,” but it was a little sickening to hear her refer to them in that manner.

After wishing us good luck, Dr. Oliver gave the four men a final warning—“Remember, guys, that older tissue doesn’t stretch as easily as 18-year-old cuties—be gentle with these two, please; don’t damage the merchandise.” (In the back of my mind, I recalled Mary using that merchandise line once when she thought I was whipping a stallion too hard. Only now WE were the slave merchandise! What goes around . . .) Then the vet departed, probably to go home at the end of her shift. As soon as the door closed behind her, the older, bearded guy who appeared to be the head smith/brander took charge.

“The vet has given you the standard medication for these procedures, but we have another procedure that we use to help slaves relax. We usually don’t have enough time for this when we brand newly-auctioned slaves, but this evening we’re in no hurry.” Given the way this place seemed to operate, I wasn’t really surprised when, without any ceremony, he walked between my widespread thighs, pushed his apron to one side, unzipped his jeans, and began licking and fondling my clit. After less than two minutes of oral stimulation, coming on top of Mary’s half-hearted efforts, I felt myself getting very warm and wet down there; the next sensation was of a fair-sized penis pressing into me. He was balls-deep after three thrusts, and then he began rhythmically pumping me while tweaking my nipples and massaging my boobs as if they were two handfuls of mashed potatoes.

Overwhelmed by sensations, I felt my body quickly climbing towards a climax. Abruptly, the support on my neck dropped down, and I found myself looking, upside down, at Dave, the handsome Black wrangler who had shepherded me all afternoon. “Open up, slut,” he remarked, calmly, “you have permission to cum as often as you like, but don’t you dare bite down when you do it.”

“Yes, Master,” I grinned, and did my best to accommodate his cock. With my neck stretched like that, aligned with my mouth and his dick, I could handle him with less difficulty than when I had crouched under his desk, although a prick that size would always be a challenge to deep throat. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mary in the same “compromised” position, spread-eagled on a restraining frame with the younger smith slamming into her cunt while Josh, the Nordic god wrangler who had controlled her all afternoon, was again making her gag on his shaft.

The head smith, whose name I never learned, remarked in a loud, appreciative voice, “Damn, this is some fine slave pussy—Red, here, must be a 500 dollar-a-trick pleasure whore.” I would have felt flattered, except that he seemed to be giving me at least as much enjoyment as I could provide him. Too bad real pleasure slaves don’t get such well-endowed, considerate Johns so they got that much fun out of their work!

His younger partner, fully sheathed in Mary, replied “You ought to try this one. For an older gal, she’s a pretty fair fuck. Wish I’d had a chance to do her ten years ago, when she would have been at her peak. I don’t know what you’ve got over there—have to try her out later—but this little beauty is another prime piece of ass.” I hoped that Mary was having half as much fun as I was; at least they were praising her performance rather than jeering at her aging body.

Just above my head, I heard Dave’s low, rumbling voice, “Well, don’t wear the cunts out. Remember the deal—we all get to use them at both ends.”

For the next half an hour or so, I was lost in the euphoria of a gangbang with four men who really knew how to USE a woman. I know, I know, that’s a chauvinistic thought to admit, but come on—four guys, three of them younger than me and all four having considerable stamina, giving me that much sustained pleasure? They weren’t just using us, but seemed genuinely concerned that we share their fun. In a brief window of lucidity, I recognized that a large part of the thrill to me was being completely under the control of four men whom I had never met before and would (I hoped) never meet again—at least, not when they could identify me! I only prayed that poor Mary was getting some satisfaction out of this experience, which was nowhere near her usual staid existence.

Time seemed to stand still in my slave haze, and towards the end of the mini-orgy I was probably floating from whatever Doctor Janice had put up my butt. I remember feeling thankful that she had administered the dose in that manner, since apparently the presence of medication in the plug meant that these guys would not try to enter my back door—and with cocks as large as Dave’s, anal sex could have been challenging, to say the least. That butt plug also ensured that whichever man was fucking my cunt felt bigger and tighter as a result. Periodically, I tried to contract my muscles around whoever was inside me and got a grateful groan, not to mention harder usage, in return.

Because I lost track of time, I really don’t know who did what to me when at which end. Periodically, I heard someone yell “switch” and the four guys played musical twats and pieholes, or whatever it was. I think they stopped and put on fresh condoms before inserting themselves between a different pair of slave thighs, but I’m not certain how they kept the whole schedule flowing. Maybe they were following a plan for scheduled tire rotations; all I know if that it all felt different shades of good to excellent.

At one point, I became aware that Dave’s huge black shaft was no longer in my mouth; bending my head to see around whichever genitalia was tickling my tonsils at that moment, I think I caught sight of Dave eagerly sucking on one of my breasts while tweaking the other. Another time, it felt as if someone was tonguing me thoroughly while rubbing sandpaper against my thighs—must have been the head smith, back for sloppy seconds, with his beard chaffing me. Mmmm. I felt like the ultimate whore, eager for all the dominant cock I could get. Tomorrow, I suspected that I would be deeply ashamed of this slutty attitude (and I was), but for the moment it felt grand.

*****

I lost count of how many orgasms I had; I began to realize that I was tired and dehydrated. Then a rapid series of events jarred me. First, whoever was pounding my cunt pulled out and was not replaced. A moment later, I felt someone rubbing something cold on my nipples, followed by a spray that made them even colder. Just as I realized what was going on, my mouth also went empty, suddenly. Seconds later, there was a sharp, painful jab through my left tit, followed perhaps 20 seconds later by the same sensation on the other side. My sexual high collapsed like a pricked balloon and I cried out, realizing that they had snuck in the nipple piercings before I could even feel apprehensive about the matter.

As I lay there, gasping like a beached whale, I heard Mary cry out twice, indicating that she, too, had gotten a needle in her boobs. And then, astonishingly enough, one of the guys remounted my pussy and resumed pounding away as if nothing had happened. A moment later, someone restored my neck support so that I could see down the length of my body, where I saw Josh vigorously pumping between my spread thighs. Looking to my side, I saw Dave servicing Mary just as strenuously. At the time, I thought they both had incredible staying power to continue fucking us for so long—or had they taken little blue pills? Just as at that moment, Josh finally unloaded, collapsing on top of me while he regained his breath. Soon thereafter, Dave also appeared to give out, lying down while gently rubbing the base of Mary’s tits, well away from her shiny new barbells.

Once the two wranglers dragged themselves off our helpless bodies, the head smith began talking again. “You see, MY relaxation system works almost as well as the vet’s. Unfortunately, it would be too dangerous to try to distract you with sex during the branding—don’t want any dicks burned or bit off! By now, though, I hope that the vet’s medicine has spread through you while you still have some endorphins left from fucking. We’ll try to be quick, but since you’re both getting the same brand, we’ll have to pause to re-heat it between applications. Do your best to stay relaxed.”

As he finished speaking, I heard a whirring sound and felt the entire frame flipping me over so that I hung face down against the straps. Now I understood why there had been no support under my buttocks—I was completely exposed down there while being held immobile. A water bottle was held to my lips while I drank deeply.

As I watched, the smith’s partner/assistant pushed a large box filled with kitty litter underneath my frame, positioning it directly under my loins, and then placed a similar box underneath Mary. My mind flashed back to when Mary’s husband had checked us into the Longhorn that afternoon. The saleswoman had persuaded him to buy audio and video tapes of our branding, saying that when slaves were branded, “Usually, they climax and lose control of their bladders at the same time!”

At that moment, I felt like I lacked the energy to orgasm ever again, and the thought of literally pissing myself was about as un-sexy as I could imagine. Being mounted while I pretended to be a pony girl? Great. Surrendering myself at a slave market where the hunky handlers used me as a sex toy? Fan-fucking-tastic. But losing control of my bowels while I suffered enormous pain? I’m a submissive, not a masochist—get me outta here! Of course, I wasn’t going anywhere; I had signed away my freedom on a power of attorney and could not move an inch to avoid the brand that I had foolishly decided I needed to pretend to be a “real” pony girl. Yeah, pretend slavery just got incredibly real.

I was worried about the pain, but even more about the loss of dignity. I know that’s a weird thing to say after an afternoon of humiliating slavery and sexual use. But, if I can get Freudian for a moment, I think most people are so deeply implanted by potty training that the idea of uncontrolled urination, pissing my panties if you will, carries a huge baggage of shame with it. What would my mom say?

Not only that, but as I waited for my fate, I began to think about the real significance of branding. At the time when all this occurred, the majority of adults over the age of 18 had Slave Identification Numbers tattooed on the inside of their lips, usually not because they were actual slaves but rather because they had been graded as collateral for loans. If anything, one could argue that the SIN gave some limited form of protection from illegal enslavement, because the government periodically checked the inventory of slaves against the National Registry.

But, having a brand on your butt was different—not only was it more painful than a tattoo, but it proclaimed to anyone who saw it that you either had been, were, or for some reason had thought about being enslaved. Rationally, I didn’t REALLY want to be a slave, but my submissive games had caused me to at least contemplate the possibility, the fantasy, of temporarily giving up my freedom. That surrender was most of the sexual thrill that I had experienced being kennelled at the Longhorn, and it had made some rather wild sex even more exciting. Even Mary, whom I had dragged into my nonsense, had got off on being used that way.

But now we had to pay for it, and our brands would be permanent proof of our mental enslavement. If there’s anything more pathetic than a slave, it must be a person who actually WANTS to be treated as a slave without any coercion, crime or monetary recompense—and I was about to get marked as such a person! I supposed that, if a slave catcher somehow got me naked and collared, he could point to that brand as proof that I wished to be enslaved. [I was relatively safe inside an ethical market like the Longhorn, which kept careful records of its inventory.] Otherwise, the odds that anyone, other than our loved ones, would ever see those brands were rather low, but WE would know. Well, I got my fun so I guess I deserved the punishment, but Mary didn’t—I had twisted her arm to go along with my fantasy, and I wasn’t even sure why I was so determined to be burned.

While all these thoughts ran through my mind, the preparations continued. The smith and his assistant, bless them, were moving quickly to get it over with. I felt cold alcohol being scrubbed across my left ass cheek while someone offered me a water bottle again. When I saw a thick (fortunately clean) bite-stick in front of my face, I opened my mouth without hesitation and felt it strapped tightly behind my head. It couldn’t be long now. Oh, lord, what a stupid @$%&# idea!

I saw the smith, wearing insulated gloves, withdraw the glowing iron, affixed to a long metal pole, from the forge. When he brought it to within a foot of my face, I tried to pull back. My mind told me to close my eyes at the terrible sight, but I was mesmerized. There it was—the glowing outline of a spoked wheel with a wide bar below it to represent the treadle and one rod running from the center of the wheel to the bulbous spindle. At least the damn thing was smaller than their Longhorn brand . . .

“Ready for the ride of your life?” he inquired. “Well, as they say in Hide-n-Seek, ready or not, here I come. You can cum too, if you want to—watch the monitor in front of you.”

I had forgotten, until that moment, that thanks to Bill, who had checked us in at the Longhorn, my posterior was being filmed for posterity and I would have to pay for it! I flushed with humiliation but couldn’t stop myself from watching the screen as the smith moved between my widespread legs, paused to line up the head with my left buttock, and then pressed it home and held it there for about 15 seconds.

I base that description on what I saw in the video after the fact. At the time, I was too frightened to feel anything except approaching doom. Once the brand met my ass, all I registered was PAIN.

I had a convulsion, but I can’t say it was an orgasm—at least not like any orgasm I’d ever had or ever want to have again. Even around the bite stick, I managed to emit an enormous howl that continued for most of a minute. My body struggled violently against the immovable framework and bonds. A strong stream of urine roared out of me into the kitty litter. I guess I should be thankful that I hadn’t eaten anything the previous evening, or I would have dropped a load of fecal matter, as well. The pain was enormous, inexpressible. If Mary was correct that branding was no worse than giving birth, I’d have gone out the next day to have my tubes tied!

And then it was over, and the smith’s deputy/assistant (I assume, because the smith was returning the brand to the forge) was spraying a disinfectant and local anaesthetic all over my—what did the vet call it?—my wound. Over the next minute or so, the pain dropped from excruciating to a deep, throbbing ache. When I looked at the video afterwards, I saw that the assistant had paused to take a still photo of my brand-new, glowing brand before he sprayed me—got to earn that $10 for the market. I wondered, perversely, where I would dare post the photo. Maybe in my office—since it didn’t really show my face I could pretend it was just another pony girl getting branded. And in a way it was, only now I was a “real” branded pony girl. Idiot, I thought to myself.

Through the pain, the smith was talking to me, and I tried to concentrate. “By rights, I should make you hump the handle of the iron that branded you.” I recalled that the Spinning Wheel Ranch smith had followed the same practice—it had been amusing to watch distressed ponies get themselves off after their branding. “But, in this case, I want to get that brand reheated quickly—it would be too darn cruel to make that other slut [he gestured towards Mary] wait longer than necessary. So, to ensure you get the full experience, I’ll have to use the handle from another iron.” He sounded almost apologetic, as if he were cheating me of the full experience.

I had thought that pissing myself and howling to the moon while being (voluntarily) branded like a cow was as low as any human being could go. Now, I discovered, the smith had just dug a sub-basement to accommodate my wounded ego’s rapid descent! He untied the bite stick, loosened the straps holding my legs, and encouraged me to rub myself on the rough handle that he pressed against my labia and clit. At first, even the tiniest movement only added to my discomfort, but within a minute my natural horniness took over. It began to feel good, and I worked hard trying to get myself off. In less than four minutes (according to the video record), the newly-branded slut pony Ginger (aka ice princess Ms. Spalding) came with an enormous shudder, actually squirting.

“Damn,” the smith’s assistant (or whatever he was) commented. “I have to say I’m impressed—not every piece of slave meat can get herself off on her own branding iron; this girl was definitely born to the collar, and it would be cruel to ever set her free.” The other guys made similar comments, which as usual arousing conflicting emotions. On the one hand, as I said, humping an iron after being branded only added to the horror and debasement I had experienced, whereas on the other my masters were complimenting my performance as the submissive slut I liked to portray once in a while. I guess my real regret was that Mary had witnessed this shameful display, but after this weekend I was certain she had lost any respect for me.

After the fact, I realized that in a strange way this humping-the-branding-iron trick was really an act of kindness, although I don’t know whether it was intentional. It took my mind off the horrible injury my body had suffered and connected that injury to sexual pleasure (Careful, girl—that line of logic leads to masochism.) At least my endorphin level was pumped back up to assist the oxycodone in handling the pain.

(Mary Jacob’s perspective)

In my wildest wet dreams, I don’t think I ever imagined being the subject of a four-man gangbang while wearing a slave collar and strapped to a branding platform. Since I had no control or responsibility over what happened, I told myself to relax and have fun (and no, I am NOT advocating “when rape is inevitable, lie back and enjoy it.” Legally, at least, this was not rape because we had voluntarily accepted slave discipline at the Longhorn, and I had left myself open to such exploitation when I signed up for this crazy weekend.) Again, how often does a 46-year-old woman get her brains fucked out by 4 muscular guys, 3 of them younger and all of them reasonably handsome and clean, all with the tacit permission of her husband? Still, I’m going to try to avoid giving Bill too many details.

If you’ve read Lois’ description of the piercing and branding that followed, there’s not much that I can add. I do think I got the short end of the branding iron (and I don’t mean on my clit), since I was an unwilling witness to her sufferings and then had to wait another ten minutes or so before I got MY ass permanently embossed with the logo of my ranch. Talk about being loyal to your employer! In the course of my adult life, I’ve witnessed or participated in the branding of hundreds of slaves, not to mention giving birth to two children on my own. But hearing a good friend getting branded while waiting for MY butt to be fried was a completely different experience.

OK, I was wrong. I’m pretty sure that being branded is significantly MORE painful than giving birth, although obstetricians will tell you that women tend to forget about the birth pain. (If they didn’t, the human race would die out. Imagine if men had to bear children.) And giving birth often takes far longer than branding, so maybe it works out. I DO know that I never want to be branded again and can’t imagine the guts it takes for slave consorts at places like the Broadstone Academy, who often have to voluntarily accept a second or even third branding. That thing hurt like hell when I first got it and made me uncomfortable for weeks after the fact.

If you’re wondering, yes, I did hump the handle of the branding iron, and I did get some pleasure from it. Lois is right that it distracted me and slightly reduced the pain of having my skin permanently charred. While my Longhorn experience confirmed that I get a little thrill from being a helpless slave, I did not orgasm right after being branded—I’m not quite THAT weird. But then, I’m not the horny little slave slut that lives inside my boss!

*****

We spent a very uncomfortable night trying to sleep on cots, with a six-dollar padlock keeping us inside a wire mesh cage at the Longhorn. Again, I had routinely locked slaves into cages and stalls for decades, but it’s incredibly different when you’re the slave and someone else holds the key. (Lois eventually confessed that she got more than a little thrill out of being locked up like that, but it’s not really my thing.)

With our left buttocks throbbing and both boobs stinging, the only possible sleeping position was on our right sides. Even then, it was a choice between being warm under a scratchy blanket that pressed against our bandaged butts or being cold lying without it in the air-conditioned quiet of a slave market at night. It would have been comforting to spoon together, but again our violated breasts were too sensitive. Neither of us slept very much.

In the middle of the night, Lois began a tearful, whispered apology for dragging me into what she herself describes as “my perverted submissive fantasies.” I was hurting too much to give her too much consolation, and that’s what I told her.

“I hurt too much to forgive you tonight, sweetie. Let’s talk about it in a few days when we’re both more rational. I DID sign up for this trip voluntarily, after all—you didn’t point a gun at me. Provided you won’t tell Bill, I’ll admit it was kind of fun to have young, hunky guys use me as a sex object; too bad it had to end with the piercings and branding. Promise me one thing, though?”

“Anything, Mary, so long as you don’t hate me,” came the whispered reply. I knew she meant it, too, because Lois didn’t seem to have many friends except me.

“Don’t ask me to play slave again. I’ll be glad to help you pretend to be Pony Girl Ginger and I’ll try to conceal your identity while you get laid in leather, but when you play that game, I want to be on the outside of the cage, wearing clothes, controlling the keys, and sleeping in my own bed. OK?” I said, with a little more urgency than I intended.

“I promise, Mary.”

“Good.” I grunted. “Now try to sleep—it can’t be too long until we have to get up.”

*****

It wasn’t long, either. As a concession to our body modifications, Josh had told us that in the morning we did not have to kneel on the floor with hands behind our necks while waiting for a wrangler to take care of us. That position would have pressed our brands against our feet, which would be excruciating. Instead, we were to wait on our bunks in the “Slave 4s” position—sort of doggie style with knees and elbows aligned with the edges of the cots. The wrangler did specify that our heads had to be all the way at one end of the cot, an odd idea that naturally made me suspicious.

Turns out my suspicions were correct. Fucking newly-branded and pierced slaves might be against medical rules at the Longhorn, but kneeling as we were, our mouths were readily available to fellate the two strange faces—and dicks—that came for us about 6:20 that Sunday morning. I was desperate to pee but had to get this guy off before he would take me to the toilets. That was probably the best head I ever gave to any man in my life, driven not by lust but by my bladder. Lois the kneeling sex goddess was even more proficient—I think she brought her wrangler off in about two minutes, then waited impatiently, with her tongue stuck out to display the load he had given her, before he allowed her to swallow and stand for cuffing.

A trip to the toilet (we had to sit down VERY gently) and another kibble-and-water breakfast, this time with our hands free, followed. At 8:00 a.m., we were Dr. Oliver’s first patients of the day (I wondered what they paid her to get up that early on a Sunday? She must have SOME student loans to pay off!) She removed the spray-on dressings, examined the damage carefully, and applied more numbing agent as well as dressings to each of our three wound sites. Then she gave us antibiotics and oxycodone, both in pill form.

By 8:30 we were waiting impatiently to be sprung from this torture chamber. Bill knew what was good for him, so he showed up promptly, signed for us, and took the appropriate paperwork as well as tiny bottles of antibiotic and oxycodone. (If you’re wondering, ranchers have much freer access to prescription medication for their livestock, both animal and human, than free people do.) Off we went across the nearly-empty parking lot; at least this time our nipples were covered with dressings, although our hairless cunts were completely exposed. Slaves have to be thankful for small favors.

I had learned to keep my mouth shut but started to get angry when Bill walked us around to the back of the horse trailer, where he had dropped the ramp. Oh, lord, I thought—is he going to play the same juvenile joke that some 18-year-olds like to pull when their friends are slave graded—that is, keep them in collars and cuffs all the way home from the market? We’re in too much pain for such games. Just wait until I get free.

But then I looked inside the trailer and saw that he had installed two air mattresses with high thread count sheets and lots of pillows on them. He quickly started the ramp closing and uncuffed us, explaining that he thought it would be too painful for us to sit on the truck seats all the way home to the ranch. Instead, he had left us our clothes, bottled water, and a fast food breakfast—he told me to use my cell phone if we wanted to come up front, otherwise he would stop just before we got to the ranch.

I may have to keep this guy; he’s a sweetheart. A month later when I was finally healed, I gave him a reward: another night of playing pony girl and master. Hey, just because I told Lois I didn’t want to do it in public doesn’t mean I can’t use my hard-earned brand for roleplaying games in my bedroom! (If you’re wondering, my SOB husband DID mount the photograph of my new-branded butt in that bedroom. Who says romance and chivalry are dead?)

(To be continued)

[Mr. Smith]

Once again these characters come to life. I really liked the way Bill ended up billing the cost of the nipple piercings and video to Lois. The flipping branding stand was a nice twist. One minute they are catching their breath after climaxing and the next their left cheeks are being prepped for a brand. My big question is what type of collar will Lois be wearing when we get to the end of her story and will Mary be joining her?

[jeepster]

Interesting twist! Didn't see Mary joining her in her adventure!

[Scman493]

Love a story where a wealthy, rich and educated women succumbs to her desires to lower herself and indulge in her fantasies. How far will she fall? Will she be treated just like a pony slave or better yet right along side by side with a real pony slave? Is humiliation in the cards? Will she get trapped? Will she get used hard? I hope yes to all! Thank you for writing.

[dtrelsky]

Excellent continuation! I love under a desk blowjobs either as a means of concealment or casual use while paying more attention to something else. The wrangler's ordering them to make out and then sixty-nine was very nice and I suspect important to set the groundwork for future interactions where Pony Girl Ginger can continue to make it up/show her appreciation to Mary for being such an amazingly good friend! The photos, recordings and piercings will be fun mementos for sure. We know Mary's photo went up in her bedroom but I'm excited to see if Lois puts her's up in her office like she was thinking, though that might be too distracting in a place she needs to focus so it might not stay up for long.
Until the next adventure!

[lovethissite]

The piercing was great, as was the careful secure an voluntary branding, looking forward to future chapters and the perils of "Ginger".

[jeepster]

Can't wait to see what Ginger get up to next!

[imreadonly2]

This was amazing. Normally stories that prevent different POVs drag, but you really hit the sweet spot, avoiding repetition while perfectly presenting their mental and emotional states.

I love the idea that she might use the brand anonymously. Maybe, since it shows her logo, it could be the logo at the top of each of her webpages. I imagine she'd get a thrill, seeing a fully dressed photo of herself in her riding clothes, crop in hand, while a few inches away a picture of her branded ass decorated the same page.

This was brilliantly written, and a perfect followup to you amazing first two chapters. Thank you for your great work, Carl!! Joe