Breeding the Pony Girl, Part 12

[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. All characters who are enslaved or have any intimate/sexual contact with slaves are 18 years of age or older. This is fiction; no one should ever be deprived of free will, still less used sexually, without his or her uncoerced permission.)

(The character of Nancy Bradford as well as her background appear courtesy of Mr.Smith27.)

(Lois Spalding’s Perspective)

In the days after I came home from the annual Slave Expo, I thought long and hard about my own future. On the first day of the event, I had foolishly indulged my own submissiveness by appearing as Pony Girl Ginger, first as part of a slave team pulling a wagon in the parade and then acting as a “demonstrator” for the students of the new Slave Veterinary Medicine program at U.T. This involved hours of being edged while random visitors to the expo kept diddling my clit and (often clumsily) re-inserting my ponytail butt plug. The young student who had “borrowed” Ginger, not knowing my real identity, had almost sold me to a random stranger who liked the blowjob I gave him. Fortunately for me, Richard Jameson, another pony rancher who had become my boyfriend, appeared just in time and rescued me, but he was NOT amused by my masquerade.

I had discovered that Richard already knew my shameful little hobby—the fact that I liked to play pony didn’t seem to phase him (hell, he’d already had sex with “Ginger” on several occasions and seemed to enjoy it), but he WAS annoyed, and rightfully so, that as a free woman I had played this game in public and risked being enslaved for real, not to mention being charged with prostitution (slaves cannot refuse sex, therefore they’re immune from laws about selling sexual favors). Richard made me promise to think about safer ways to play, such as a Texas Free In Name Only (FINO) personal services contract that would give me some legal protection. But that only worked if I were willing to take the humiliating step of registering myself as someone’s de facto, part time slave. And then, to emphasize his displeasure, Richard (1) collared and cuffed me like a real slave, (2) flipped me over his lap and spanked my butt red as if I were a recalcitrant child, and (3) Locked me into a standard “poodle” wire mesh cage and returned me to my own employee and friend, Mary Jacobs, with my face covered but my boobs on full display. Finally, with Mary’s full agreement, he had loaded that cage and me into the back of my ranch pickup truck, so I got to ride the whole way home cramped and humiliated on public view! (The really sad thing was that I kinda enjoyed it.)

OK; message received. Even if I did not get enslaved, he was correct that I was running too many risks of social disaster if my little hobby became public knowledge. I had gotten away with another such game three months earlier when, at my request, Mary had rented me out as a sex pony to the Breeding Barn Café. Richard and two other women who knew the truth about me had enjoyed using me as their personal toy, but so far they had kept my secret either because they liked me or (more likely) because they enjoyed the sex and knew that I would feel obligated to submit to them again in future.

That same night at the Breeding Barn, my drunk ex-husband had been rather rough using me as a pony prostitute and had commented on the resemblance between “Ginger” and his “tight assed” ex-wife (he tried to stretch the ass in question but lacked the equipment to do so.) Predictably, when he sobered up two days later he telephoned me, claiming he had used me while I was masquerading as a pony slave. He was correct, of course, but the idea was so outlandish that I dripped scorn on him and threatened to get a restraining order and sue him for slander. He saw that he wasn’t going to win, and actually apologized—but I had to forego any future trips to the Breeding Barn. At least until the inevitable day when Jack got caught DUI or wrapped his car around a telephone pole.

While I’m talking about leaking information, I might as well mention the very first outsider who had discovered me—Texas Agriculture Department Inspector Sam Houston Sterling. Sam’s job was checking slavery establishments to ensure that the most extreme forms of mistreatment did nor occur and incidentally to check whether any free women had been enslaved illegally.

Being a competent guy, Mr. Sterling had immediately realized that the ranch’s records for a pony slave named Ginger bore the Slave Identification Number (875-33-9443) belong to a free woman (if this confuses you: for various reasons many citizens get themselves slave graded, including having SINs tattooed inside their mouths, soon after they reach age 18; the SIN by itself does not indicate enslavement.) Only Sterling didn’t make a fuss about his discovery—in fact he pretended that he didn’t know 875-33-9443’s actual name and identity, even though he must have looked it up in the National Slave Registry. Instead, Sam came around every few months to check on this woman, supposedly to ensure that she was not being coerced. His manner of checking was unorthodox, though—he visited Ginger’s stall (or in one instance drove me out to a remote corner of the ranch) where he proceeded to tie me up and tease me until I begged for use, which “request” (he claimed) proved that I was still acting of my own free will. Of course, once I begged for it, he conducted an extended search of all three of Ginger’s “cavities” using his cock!

I found these visits a real turn-on, and he never abused the privilege or insulted me (which didn’t exclude calling “Ginger” by the usual terms used to demean and arouse slave ponies, beginning with bimbo slut and escalating from there!) But I was alarmed when, two days after Ginger had been used & spanked at the Slave Expo, the news broke that Sterling had been arrested for taking money from various slave businesses in return for not reporting irregularities. I knew that he had recorded my lust-filled voice begging him, as my “Master,” to fuck me in any opening he chose, and I waited for my entire life to blow up in my face. The Ag Department did send out an investigator, but that guy didn’t appear to have the incriminating tapes. Instead, I told him truthfully that Mr. Sterling had never asked for nor received money from the Spinning Wheel Ranch (Technically, pseudo-pony pussy has some monetary value, but he only asked about cash payments.)

I might as well finish this sad story—I’ll get back to Richard and me in a minute, if you don’t mind.

The next thing I heard, Sterling had been convicted and sentenced to eight years’ penal servitude. The day after that happened, I had to sign personally for an envelope delivered, by private messenger, from Sterling’s lawyer’s office. Inside was a note addressed to Ginger, that read in part:

“I have to tell you, one more time, that you are a fantastic piece of ass, 9443. I mean that as a sincere compliment. I know you’re legally free, and I really was checking to make sure you stayed that way, but in my mind (no offense) you were definitely ‘Born to the Collar.’ I want to ensure that, in the event of my demise or arrest, you don’t suffer any ill effects from having been such a cooperative cunt when I ‘inspected’ you. The attached thumb drives contain the only copies of my inspection visits. Lust always, Sam.”

How can you not like a guy who cares enough to plan like that? He was a corrupt civil servant (not particularly rare in Slave Texas’s Ag Department), but I still had a soft spot in my heart for him, just as I think he still had a hard-on for Ginger. So, I had my agent buy the disgraced inspector when he came up for slave auction (he only sold for $2500 because of his age), and then I put Sam to work peeling potatoes and washing dishes in our mess hall. I owed him that much for covering for me, not to mention for COVERING me in such a thrilling manner. Mary’s husband Bill, who knew about my hobby including Sterling’s visits to “Ginger,” was the head cook—he said that Sam never breathed a word about me, just quietly worked off his sentence. Too bad Sam and I had both lost the convenient fiction that he could “compel” me to service him as a pony.

*****

But I need to return to what happened right after the Slave Expo. Richard Jameson had insisted that I should talk to Nancy Bradford, so when she called and invited me to meet her for lunch, I agreed—Richard had reason to be pissed at me, and it seemed like such a little thing to cooperate. I still hadn’t dared to talk to him in person since he collared, spanked, and caged me. (I guess it shows you how submissive I was that I still worried about pleasing him. Any normal woman would have told him to fuck off and die for humiliating her like that, but by now you know I’m not “normal” when it comes to social relationships. I just wanted to feel him dominating my bound body.)

When Richard first asked me if I knew Nancy, I had replied that she was an alumna of my sorority chapter at school, only “a few years older” than me. That’s a typical Southern social lie (I guess there’s no such thing as a “little white lie” anymore, is there? Only big lies.) In fact, I knew Nancy had graduated 14 years before me from the same college, but you’d never have guessed her age when you saw how youthful and fit she looked when we met. Although she was generously endowed in both chest and tush, her entire body was taut and in shape, and she moved with the grace of a dancer when we air-kissed and sat down (this being Texas, I actually wrote “set down” in my first draft) at our table. Long, brunette hair, perfectly-made up face, sexy contralto voice—she was the whole package (if you’ve read the previous parts of this story, you know that my hobby had caused me to recognize I had some “bi” tendencies, but Nancy was a “10” in anyone’s book, regardless of gender or sexual preference.)

We made small talk until the waitress brought our orders, and then she started in earnest.

“We only know each other slightly, so to coin a phrase I suppose you’re wondering why I called this meeting,” she said quietly, with a slight smile on her face.

“Actually,” I responded, tried to respond in the same joking manner, “I thought Richard Jameson called this meeting.”

“He did,” Nancy replied, and hesitated for a moment. “Only, what he asked me to talk about is kinda personal, so I hope I can trust my sorority sister not to repeat it.”

“Of course you can,” I replied, suddenly serious. “And I hope you will respect my privacy in the same manner. I gather it has something to do with—this is really embarrassing—with the fact that Richard has seen me several times when I was dressed up like a pony girl.”

She looked relieved. “Thank you for that, and you’re right, that’s the topic, although he didn’t tell me very much about what you do in your private life.”

I couldn’t help giggling. “I think Richard is worried because it’s no longer my quote private unquote life. Last week I was part of a ten-pony team pulling a float in the Slave Expo parade, after which I got used as a sexual demonstrator at an expo booth for slave veterinary students. So I’m not exactly private any more, even though they certainly were playing with my private parts!”

“Whoa!” Nancy rejoined with a broad smile. “Since you were so honest, let me be equally blunt and tell you my own story.”

She took a deep breath, paused, and launched into her tale—I could tell she had told variations on this many times over, because it came out with almost no “ums” or hesitations.

“I graduated from college at 20, and by age 23 I was married with three children—a girl and twin boys. I loved them to pieces, and so did my husband Hank, but they kept us so busy that we didn’t have much time for sleep, let alone a love life. Besides, I was still 25 pounds overweight from the second pregnancy.”

“My friends and I began attending a slave yoga class, taking turns caring for our kids until they were old enough for day care. I started to feel better physically, and I also got turned on by the sensual content of slave yoga. Then I found a couple of videos of actual slave handlers instructing slaves in Block Positions. You probably know more about that than I do, but the postures were more suggestive than in slave yoga and the things those slaves had to say!! I had never dared to say or even THINK phrases like that—you know what I mean, “Please shove your monster cock up my ass, Master,” “Buy this body and fuck any hole you want”—stuff like that. I started to practice at home, nude, while my kids were napping; I always kept a robe on hand to grab if I heard a cry on the baby monitor.”

“So the weight started to melt off me and I got really horny. One day my husband, Hank, came home unexpectedly at lunch time and found me butt naked, posturing obscenely and begging to be used hard! So he obliged. We hadn’t made love like that in years, and the whole time I was in sub-space, calling him Master.”

“Wow—what a great story,” I said, not wanting to sound judgemental. “I’m sure that did wonders for your marriage.”

She smirked. “You could say that, but it didn’t stop there. Whenever the grandparents could take the kids, I’d spend a weekend or an evening as Hank’s slave slut, bound, collared, and stuffed in every opening. Then he got the idea of dressing me up like a pony girl, at first in the bedroom and later, on the rare occasions where we could get away in the countryside, with him treating me like a pony slave.”

“Double wow—thanks for telling me all this; now I understand why Richard wanted me to talk with you.” I murmured, but I was thinking to myself that she had a happy ending ONLY because her guy loved her and her parents would cover for her.

“Well;” Nancy replied. “Now that I’ve confessed this much to you, do you mind if I finish the story?” When I nodded, she went ahead. “Hank and I wanted a non-sexual way to involve our kids in this experience that had made me so much healthier and happier. So, he bought me a custom-made leather outfit that covered my entire body except my face. That way, he could load the kids into a sulky, harness me up to it, and I could tow the kids around. They loved it. By the time she was seven, my girl was driving “Mommy” around—my arms were bound, my hair was combed up as a mane, and she steered me around using my bit and bridle, with occasional gentle strokes on my well-clothed butt. (The kids never knew how or where my ponytail was anchored, by the way.) All of us were giggling and really enjoyed the family time together, while I still got exercise. Not to mention what Hank and I did that evening when he got Rosebud alone in the bedroom.”

“Rosebud?” I asked, raising one eyebrow.

She blushed slightly. “Yeah, it means just what you think. Remember this all started with slave mantras where I invited a ‘master’ to sodomize me. Well, once I got used to wearing a ponytail butt plug and realized how much fun a had pretending to be a submissive animal, I found that I REALLY enjoyed having Hank ream my Rosebud, even though it’s not part of our ordinary love play when we’re equals.”

“I’m not judging,” I assured her. “Some of the best climaxes of my life have been with oversized stallions stuffing me back there.”

“Oh, wow—you mean slave stallions using you?” She asked; I nodded, turning red myself. “I mean this as a sincere compliment, but you really ARE a slut, aren’t you?” She replied.

“Guilty as charged.”

“Anyway,” Nancy pursued. “Once the boys reached their tenth birthday, we stopped the family sulky rides because it started to seem strange and we were afraid the kids might compare notes with their friends. Pretty soon, however, our children were old enough to go to summer camp and things REALLY got interesting in their absence.”

“You and Hank played pony every night?” I suggested.

“Better than that,” She replied. “They don’t put this on their web site, but the Lone Oak Equestrienne Academy runs summer training sessions for MILFs—which in this case means MARES I’d love to . . . you get the idea. I spent two summer sessions at the Lone Oak learning dressage routines. Once I qualified, I got the chance to be branded with the Lone Oak symbol right between my butt cheeks. I don’t know who was prouder—me to qualify or Hank to fry my ass!”

“Ouch,” I responded. “I went to the Longhorn Slave Market to get my ranch’s brand on my left buttock, and it hurt for weeks, especially when I sat down.”

“Well, I guess you couldn’t ask your own blacksmith to brand you, but how did you get it done at the Longhorn?” the MILF inquired.

“My stable manager and I had ourselves kennelled as slaves and had it done on weekend.” I answered.

“DAMMMN!” She laughed. “As a free woman you went into a slave market pretending to be a slave? I can imagine what THAT led to.” I nodded, smiling at the innuendo—I had personal confirmation of the urban legend that women who stayed overnight in a slave market got gang-banged. Nancy continued, smiling and shaking her head. “Like I said before, you could give skank lessons to a Sandy Foot Girl. Makes me proud to be your sister!”

“Anyway,” She resumed, “let me finish the story really quickly. Once the boys were off to college, Hank and I began to play more openly and for longer time periods. When the Texas Legislature passed the FINO law, I was one of the first people to sign up, making myself into Hank’s parttime slave. That made me feel a lot safer, because now I was in the National Slave Registry so he could use his pony on a lunch date in public without getting arrested. Eventually, most of my friends joined in and it turned into a group effort—a chance for the husbands to change mounts in the middle of the stream, so to speak. Monday lunch at the Breeding Barn became Monday MILF day.”

“Sounds like fun,” I replied. “But, that’s what bothered Richard, because he knows I masqueraded as a pony prostitute at the Breeding Barn even though I was a free woman. He suggested I talk to you about being a Texas FINO. Only trouble is, I think that most of your success as a FINO pony can be attributed to the love you share with your husband. And I don’t have anyone like that.”

“I call bullpucky, Girlfriend.” Nancy almost erupted, leaning forward and speaking forcefully under her breath. “Look, Lois, I don’t know you very well, but as you can imagine Hank and I are pretty friendly with Richard or he wouldn’t know my little secret. I gotta tell you, every time Richard speaks about you he lights up like a Christmas tree, and you act the same way when you talk about him. I’ll bet the guy wants to put TWO rings on you, one on your third finger and the other on your neck as a FINO.”

“From your lips to god’s ears,” I replied, still not believing it.

We spent a long time talking about how to make a loving FINO relationship work. She recommended that I talk the whole thing over with a slave psychiatrist, which was a legal requirement before signing such a contract.

The last thing Nancy said stuck with me: “I can tell that Ginger belongs in my group of MILFs, although most of us are into dressage rather than harness racing. Once you sort out your legal status, PLEASE let me know so that we can welcome you to our herd of sluts.”

*****

With suspicious promptness, Richard called me the same evening I had met Nancy (“Rosebud”) for lunch. I thought he would still be angry at me, but instead he seemed in a good mood. After we chatted about everything EXCEPT the elephant (in this case pony) in the room, he asked me what I thought about Nancy’s story.

I hesitated but decided that it was a little late for secrets. “I don’t know, Richard. Her life sounds wonderful, but a Texas FINO contract is a long term commitment, not to mention that I could easily be humiliated if that became general knowledge. Unlike Hank and Nancy, most of my acquaintances have access to the National Registry and might look me up if they heard a rumor. That means I’d need to find someone I could really trust to quote own unquote me.”

Richard gave a little laugh. “I understand what you’re saying, Darling, but you’ve already given that level of trust to several people without any legal protections. Both at the Breeding Barn and at the Slave Expo, you could easily have ended up enslaved for real with no options, and wouldn’t that be far more embarrassing than a Texas FINO contract? As for finding an owner, you’ve already given Mary Jacobs that trust, and I hope by now you know you can trust me. If I wanted to trick or humiliate you, I could have done anything I wanted once you let me collar and cage you, right?”

“You’re right, of course,” I acknowledged, then tried to make a joke. “I suppose it’s too late for me to ask you whether you have honorable intentions with regard to me?”

His voice became serious. “Do you really need to ask that, Love?” He left the question hanging in the air before switching to a related topic. “In the meantime, I think you need to talk to a slave shrink, both to understand yourself better and as a necessary step IF you decide to do a FINO contract. Would you do that for me, please?”

I giggled. “I think you’ve already demonstrated that you can get me to do anything you want, Richard Jameson. But slave psychiatrists are scarce—I don’t mind the expense, but last time one of my herd needed one it took more than three months to get an appointment.”

“Let me take care of that,” Richard replied. “I think I know a shrink who would be willing to give you a tele-med consultation.”

That’s how, two evenings later, I ended up on a Zoom call with Dr. Nicola Sheldon. I knew her by reputation, of course; almost everyone in the Texas slavery industry had heard about her record both as a therapist and as a researcher, which included co-authoring the standard reference book, Psychological Impact of Slavery. I wondered how Richard had enough influence to get an appointment on such short notice, but I soon realized that “Nikki”—as she insisted I call her—was a force of nature who worked incredible hours to help everyone she could, often (in the case of slaves) pro bono. During our long conversation, I realized that she was giving up her evening to me, although she had to pause a few times to talk to her cute little boy, Butch.

When the Zoom conference first began, I thought I was talking to her receptionist, because the face on the screen seemed far too young and beautiful to belong to such an accomplished shrink. Blond haired, blue-eyed, and when she shifted around I caught sight of an impressive cleavage. She was as friendly as she was gorgeous, constantly smiling and empathizing—Nikki had an infectious personality that quickly convinced me trust her. Part of that trust came when she explained that, to qualify as a slave psychiatrist, she had voluntarily indentured herself for six months, performing as various forms of slave sex worker ranging from BDSM submissive to call girl to glory hole cocksucker. Here was a woman who could understand me without judging my behavior.

In the course of two hours, I confided feelings and events that I would blush to tell even Mary Jacobs about. That even included the fact that I had freely responded to slave commands from Richard, allowing him to collar, cuff, and (blush) spank me to convey his concern about my risky games at the Breeding Barn Café and the Slave Expo. She also went over the pros and cons of a Texas FINO contract.

Finally, I thanked her for her time and apologized for taking up her entire evening. I had thought it would take months of therapy to reach this point.

“Lois,” Nikki replied. “You’re right that we could take a long time discussing your situation further, and if you want we can try to schedule that. Since we’re both busy people, however, I owe it to you to give you my first impressions; my apologies if I seem blunt.”

Her face became serious. “If you choose to enter into a FINO contract with someone, I will act as your shrink guardian—it’s something I’ve done before and I’m confident that you understand the risks. As for your overall situation . . .” She paused as if to collect her thoughts, then plunged ahead.

“First, you have repeatedly referred to yourself as weird, perverted, or even sick. Please don’t think of yourself in those terms. Yes, you have some unusual attitudes about what gives you pleasure, but those attitudes are by no means unique. You told me you talked to Nancy Bradford, so you know there are others like you. And I understand you’ve tried to keep your desire a secret because it would be really humiliating for it to become public knowledge, especially with your peers and employees. Still, there’s nothing wrong or perverted or sick about what you enjoy, so long as you do it responsibly.” She giggled. “Listen to me—sounds like a public service announcement to drink responsibly!”

Nikki continued. “Which brings me to two risks you face. The first is obvious, and you don’t need me to tell you that when you surrender your freedom and allow yourself to be treated like that, you run the risk of being kidnapped or even taken to slave court where a judge might determine that you had enslaved yourself. Which would turn your thrilling adventures into the drudgery of actual slavery, losing all your property and status. The humiliation of THAT would be far worse than any FINO revelations.”

“The second risk is that, even when you aren’t consciously pretending to be a pony, you slip into the mindset of a slave very easily. Call it slave haze or sub-space or whatever; the exact psychological term doesn’t really matter unless you’re in court for a protective enslavement hearing, which might really happen, you know?”

I nodded my head, sobered by the idea.

After pausing for my answer, the self-described “slave shrink” went on. “I’m particularly concerned about your response when Richard ordered you to ‘collar,’ ‘back hands,’ and ‘kneel.’ At that moment, you freely chose to act as a slave. Perhaps it happened because you love Richard—and yes, I said love; think about how you feel about the man. You knew he was alarmed—I think you said ‘irritated’—that you had endangered yourself, so you acted both to placate him and to surrender all decisions, trusting him to treat YOU—the real Lois, not your pretend pony girl Ginger—as a slave, in any way he wanted. You wouldn’t have said a word if he took you back to his ranch and kept you as a slave indefinitely, so long as he paid some attention to his new pony. Am I right?”

Glumly, I had to agree. “I hate to admit it, but you’re right—I can’t say ‘no’ to that guy.”

Nikki: “The question is, then, whether you act that way because you love HIM (in which case you should consider a FINO contract with him) or because you’re mentally ready to be a slave for ANYONE. Sorry to be so gloomy, but this is important. I would NEVER encourage someone to make herself an ACTUAL slave, but you need to decide what YOU want to do before you end up with a judge or a kidnapper putting a collar around your neck.”

“Finally, unless you authorize me, I won’t say anything to Richard other than that I think you’re a good candidate for a Texas FINO contract—that’s a matter of business law, not patient-doctor confidentiality. However, if you end up enslaved or in court for a slavery hearing, then you lose that confidentiality. Texas law would require me to tell the judge about your mental state, and by that point you’ve lost all your freedom of choice; I can almost guarantee that every judge I know would decide to enslave you either outright or as a protective order. Please think about this and let me know if I can help you.”

“Thanks so much for talking to me, Nikki; I promise to get back to you.”

*****

For several weeks, I wrestled with the question. Richard called or texted me intermittently, and we even sat together at a slave industry banquet. He was very loving with me, holding my hand under the table and kissing me good night, but all he would say about the big issue was that he wanted me to reach a decision soon, then talk to him.

By now almost a month had passed since the Slave Expo, and my indecision was made worse by the fact that I hadn’t indulged in my favorite hobby, so I was having withdrawal symptoms (this being the south, perhaps I should have said “With drawl symptoms.” Bad joke, never mind.)

One Friday I asked Hailie if she would like some overtime the next evening, which was our code for taking me out as a pony girl. Mary heard me and objected; she spoke formally because we might be overheard.

“Do you think that’s wise, Mizz Spalding? Remember what Mr. Jameson said.”

I snapped, “Who do you work for, me or Richard Jameson?”

She moved closer to me and half-whispered, “At the moment I work for you, but if you get your cute little butt enslaved, how will I explain things to your board of directors?” I had no comeback to that, so she added, “At least write out instructions to have yourself tacked up and trained; up until now, if anything went wrong with Ginger you’d be enslaved but that poor girl might be suspected of helping to kidnap you.”

That made a weird kind of sense, especially after Richard has warned me that my games were exposing the two of them to prosecution. I wrote out instructions for what I wanted Hailie Wilson to do to me. I realized that such a document could be used as one more proof that I WANTED to be enslaved, but Mary was right, I owed it to Hailie and her to absolve them of responsibility. In retrospect, I guess I was ASKING for a collar. (Duh!)

The next evening, just after sunset, I felt happy for the first time since the parade—Hailie had felt and tacked me up (while talking to me as a bimbo pony) and was now pushing me hard up and down the back trails of the ranch. I was in a submissive groove, damp between my thighs and occasionally thrilled when she hauled back on my bit and nipple reins.

And then it all went wrong. I heard what sounded like a shotgun blast from behind us. I couldn’t turn my head to look, but Hailie’s despairing “Damn!—Rustlers” told me all I needed to know. Soon two all-terrain vehicles, driven by masked and helmeted men, pulled up alongside. There was no way I could outrun a motorized cart even if I weren’t pulling a sulky. Hailie pulled back on the reins again, and this time I did not get any sexual thrill. I felt even more miserable when Hailie gave a sharp cry and fell off the sulky—apparently one of the rustlers had knocked her sprawling.

One of the men, whose swarthy appearance reinforced my impression (stereotype?) that he was Mexican, jumped off his ATV and strode over to me. In seconds he had cut away my helmet strap and yanked the bridle and bit off my head. When I opened my mouth to scream (which would have been futile, since no one was within earshot to help), he stuffed a dildo gag into my mouth and secured it behind my neck. I was glad to realize that the dildo had a breathing tube in the middle of it. By the time I had found that I could still breathe, I was plunged into darkness as he pulled some type of black cloth bag over my head. A series of sharp tugs disconnected me from the sulky harness, after which he apparently cut the cords that held both my forearm binder and my bustier closed. Then I felt him jerk my ponytail out—without the GPS tracker in that butt plug, no one would be able to locate me. My voice converter collar followed, replaced by what felt like an ordinary leather slave collar.

As he restrained my wrists with a zip-tie, the full horror of my situation struck home. I was gagged, hooded, and cuffed, standing slave naked except for my boots. Nobody but poor Hailie would know that I had been kidnapped, and it would take her quite a while to walk back to the barns and rouse some help. Ginger had suddenly become a real slave, figuratively fucked with the actual penetration no doubt coming in the near future. Why didn’t I listen to Richard?

The rustler effortlessly lifted me and carried me a few feet, then put me down roughly—I felt a wire mesh pressed into my skin, telling me that he had placed me in the carrier at the back of his ATV. Finally, he zip-tied my ankles as well, then used what felt like another pair of zip-ties to connect wrist and ankle restraints into a hogtie.

The whole process took less than two minutes, and then with a roar of his engine the rustler hauled me away from the ambush site. For the next 20 minutes or so (I had no way of measuring time) his wild driving bounced my body cruelly all over the carrier basket before we came to a halt. I knew I would have bruises the next day, but that was the least of my worries at the moment. Someone—presumably my abductor—lifted me off the vehicle, while in the background I heard a number of sounds that (I finally concluded) probably were the other guy loading the ATVs onto some truck for their further escape. If they were able to conceal those vehicles inside something else, no one would associate them with my disappearance—even assuming that someone was looking for me!

I had little time to think about my situation, as the guy carrying me dropped me on my knees in what felt like sand or dirt. I sensed the bottom of my head bag being lifted up, then the rustler removed the dildo gag and promptly replaced it with his cock! Thank heavens he was clean, other than being somewhat sweaty. Still, my first blowjob as a real slave was a LOT less fun for me than all the times I had used my mouth while pretending. I concentrated on getting it over with, using my tongue and lips as much as possible while the guy grasped my ears through the bag and pumped vigorously into me. Then his hands shifted to toying with my nipples. I confess that the combination of strokes and pinches did arouse me a little bit—I must have been more submissive than I had ever imagined.

It can’t have been more than 30 or 40 strokes before he blasted a large load into the back of my throat. I was still coughing and hacking when he re-inserted the gag and rolled down the heavy cloth bag. For good measure, he shoved a lubricated butt plug up my back passage—it was uncomfortable, but smaller than the usual ponytail retainer.

I felt someone fiddling around my shins but couldn’t figure out what was happening until my boots suddenly came off, eliminating the last stitch of my pony girl costume and the last place where a GPS might have been concealed. At least my ankles were no longer restrained, but that didn’t last long. The unknown rustler was muttering something that sounded like Spanish, although the only word I recognized was “puta,” the universal term for whore, slut, or bitch. I suddenly realized that the word perfectly described my new status. After he pushed backwards on my shoulders several times, I got the idea that he wanted me to crawl in that direction. That quickly brought me into contact with a hard tray—crap! He was putting me into a “poodle cage” used to transport slaves. I heard the gate swinging towards me, and flinched backwards before it slammed shut, sounding as if it were right where my face had been.

Apparently, being bound, gagged, and hooded in a cage wasn’t sufficient restraint. I felt his hands reaching through the wire mesh as he used zip ties first to secure my ankles to the back corners of the cage and then to connect the zip tie around my wrists to the cage wall behind me. This left me unable to move anything except my head, while my butt cheeks were pressed back into the wire—I’m sure it looked as if I wore fishnets! Not to mention that this position held the plug securely in place. I wasn’t going anywhere on my own until someone released me.

Which seemed like it would be a long time coming (no pun intended.) Whatever vehicle I was in started up and moved for what seemed like hours. I had no idea where I was going, but I was conscious of the high-speed whir of tires on a highway. Then the truck or whatever started, stopped, and started again for 20 minutes or so, as if it were in bumper-to-bumper traffic. I really freaked out when, during one rather long stop, I heard what sounded dimly like a conversation in Spanish—and then the truck picked up speed again. Had that been a customs stop at the border? If so, I was now genuine slave meat in Mexico with no chance of escape. My life as a free woman was over—the only question was how harshly I would be used.

Another long, wearing time on the road. I was too terrified, worrying about Hailie as well as myself, to really sleep, but I must have dozed off because when I awoke the truck was again halted and this time the motor was no longer running.

Then I heard a scraping noise and the entire cage tilted—someone had loaded their nesewt slave onto a handcart. Where the hell was I?

(To be continued)

[jeepster]

Awesome! Lois finally got what was coming down the tracks! Can't see Richard going looking for her after she didn't listen to him, so Mary and Hailie?

[Mr. Smith]

Either Lois is truly fucked, or Richard is going to extremes to teach her a lesson.

[jeepster]

Wow! never looked at it from that POV Orflash64! Was thinking if she is truly fucked that all the business men who's wives are in Rosebud's herd of sluts could keep an eye out and drive Ginger's humiliation thru the roof!

[bertrumm00057]

With Lois still willing to risk exposure, Richard really needed to put her through her paces to really ring home how stupid and reckless she has been. Either way, if she really is rustled, and if Richard rescues her the lesson is learned.

[imreadonly2]

This is an unexpected treat, made all the more amazing because of the wonderful sense of surprise. I had expected we were coming in for a rather routine landing at Dallas/Ft Worth, followed by a long taxi to the FINO gate. But the completely unexpected kidnapping but us back in the air, and on our way to parts unknown. Thank you for this wonderful chapter, and I can hardly wait to see where this goes. The suspense is terrible, and I hope it lasts.

[jeepster]

There's so many ways this could go!

[Carl Bradford]

I am flattered by all the interest in my little cliffhanger; hope y'all won't be disappointed by the final outcome. I am working on it now, but it may be a week or longer before I can post it for you.

[Carl Bradford]

How do you keep a fetish reader in suspense , Carl.

[jeepster]

Also new photo album Breeding The Ponygirl. Just getting started, it's hard finding redhaired ponygirls.

[Carl Bradford]

How do you keep a fetish reader in suspense , Carl.

There are various methods of suspending a fetishist. None are comfortable.

[jeepster]

So Mary called Richard and told him about Lois's new Ginger adventure! They planned a way to teach Lois the error of her way! Mary informed Hailie what they had planned so she wasn't hurt when the rustlers hired by Richard stole Ginger!