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Nerd Pony

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Carl Bradford
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Nerd Pony

Post by 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 nor used sexually without his or her uncoerced permission.)

(The following story turned out to have some parallels to the “Extraordinary Talent” series, although this time the roles of slave and owner are reversed.)

(Kevin Adams’ perspective)

“And THAT’S your big idea for how I can go to college, Kevin? Enslave myself and walk around nekkid on your Daddy’s ranch?”

I was afraid of this; my Mom had made the idea sound logical, but in practice it was so bizarre that almost anyone would have objected. And Julie Morrison was my best friend—heck, my ONLY friend—at Connally High School in Waco, so now she was (predictably) furious at me. We were completely compatible as people—two smart nerds with self-confidence issues, just turned 18 in our senior year, both a little overweight and regularly bullied by the “cool crowd” at school. At least once a week, I got my books knocked all over the hallway while the “students” who majored in football stuffed me into a locker; the cheerleader crowd was less physical with Julie but still belittled her at every opportunity, doing their best to make her cry. Julie and I had no one else with whom it was safe to eat lunch or walk down a corridor, let alone talk honestly.

Over the past few years, it hadn’t really mattered to our relationship that my family were KINDA rich ranchers while her mom could barely feed her (her dad had disappeared years ago, leaving them in a dingy trailer on the edge of town). But now that it was time for college, my family’s relative wealth had reared its shiny BMW head. I was going away to Massachusetts Institute of Technology, but although Julie had been accepted at the same place with a partial scholarship for tuition, she couldn’t even afford a bus ticket to Massachusetts. Until I proposed this idea, her only option had been to go to McClennan Community College and pray that somehow she could earn a scholarship for more than just tuition to UT or A & M; those were good schools, all right, but her going there would have been a waste of a brilliant mind, not to mention putting me more than 1,000 miles from my only friend. Sigh.

My parents’ idea to help her AND me suddenly seemed like it would cost me that friend, leaving me alone. . . again . . . UNnaturally (yeah; part of my nerdiness was listening to ‘70s songs.)

So, I tried again: “Julie, you know I have complete respect for you, and my parents think you’re pretty great, too. I have never talked to them about your Mom’s financial status, but they know you probably can’t afford college. Mom thought you might be able to go to Broadstone Academy, but I know you want to do more with your life than be some guy’s consort.” [I didn’t want to tell her that Broadstone wanted Prime-rated or Choice-rated college graduates.] “Besides, my Mom feels we would both do a lot better in college if we could study together at the same place.”

She sighed heavily, making the front of her baggy sweatshirt flutter (she always wore baggy clothes to reduce criticism about her appearance; I was sufficiently male to imagine what she would look like WITHOUT clothes, but I kept reprimanding my horny mind for fantasizing and objectifying my only peer. If you’re wondering, she has twinkling brown eyes and chocolate brown, shoulder-length hair.) “I got it, Kev. But you KNOW I cain’t afford to go to Yankee land with you; best I can do is wait until all the cheerleaders go to college and apply to replace one of ‘em at the Chick-fil-A over on Franklin. A few years working there and I might save enough for a semester of school.”

I tried again, ”That’s why my Mom suggested that you become a pony girl. I know, don’t tell me, it’s degrading and objectifying. But, that way the ranch board of directors won’t know or much care if my parents send me off to college with a pony girl servant. Lots of ranchers do the same thing when their sons go away to college—the only difference would be, you know I would never force you to have sex with me, right? Yeah, you’d probably have to fellate some of the wranglers this summer while you trained as a pony; that’s gross, and I apologize for even mentioning it, but in three months you’d be done with it.”

“This way, you could travel with me up to Cambridge, with a plane seat right next to me. Freshman year, I’d have to live in a dorm and you’d spend your nights in the Slave Kennels—that’s the rules, sorry—but I’d authorize you maximum time out of there for classes and studying. Heck, you KNOW I need your help in Calc! Then, from sophomore year on, my Mom said I could rent an apartment and you could stay there with me. The only difference between you and other students would be a collar, and I hear even that’s become more common up North. If you self-indentured for five years right after we graduate Connally in June, you’d be free again about the same time we finished our engineering degrees. After that, we could go back to being just friends.” [I glossed over the possibility that she might still have to be a pony girl if she had a summer free; I was trying to sell the idea to her because I really thought it was in her best interests.]

I tried one more time. “Of course, I understand that you don’t like people treating you like a sex object or judging you based on your appearance—and that makes bein’ a pony girl MUCH worse for you than it would be for one of those bimbo cheerleaders who enjoy showing that their bra size is bigger than their IQs. But on the other hand, we’d be able to get a good education while spending most of our time together. Besides which, in return for self-indenture my parents could give your Mom some money to make HER life easier, as well. Please THINK about it, will you?”

Another sweatshirt-fluttering exhalation. “I’ll think about it, Kev, but you’re askin’ an awful lot. And if you breathe a word of this in school . . .”

I couldn’t help giggling. “Like there’s anyone I want to talk to in THAT place, other than MAYBE a few of the teachers. I think you’ll agree that, after graduation, no one will catch us DAID in that zoo.”

“Got that right!” she snickered, her good humor starting to return.

*****

For my own ego, I want to explain here that just because I was a pimply-faced “loser” nerd does not mean I was a virgin. That would have been kinda difficult to achieve growing up on a Pony Girl ranch. Until I turned 18, my mother had insisted that I NOT see any nekkid pony girls, let alone touch or use them; even when Mom took me for a sulky ride behind two shapely young slaves, she always insisted that the women wear bustiers and a kind of bikini bottom (with a hole in back to accommodate the pony’s tail plug!) to cover their “naughty bits.” (I’m a nerd; quoting Monty Python is mandatory.)

For my 18th birthday, however, my father stepped in. He could have just allowed me to plow some anonymous pony tied to a mounting rack, but instead he had a private conversation with Phyllis, a busty, mid-thirties mare who had been sentenced to 15 years of criminal slavery for killing her abusive, alcoholic husband. (I should add that my father was always fair, insisting that Phyllis had gotten a raw deal because, in the Texas vernacular, her husband “needed killin’.” For a pony mare, she was treated very gently and respectfully on our ranch, and one of my earliest recollections is my mother lecturing me to “be nice with Mizz Phyllis.”) Anyway, Dad ASKED Phyllis if she would introduce me to love-making as an 18th birthday present. She was happy to do so, allowing as how I was a nice, respectful boy who needed to learn how to be kind to ladies, even ladies in bridles and pony boots. I spent the night in bed with an experienced woman twice my age who not only thrilled me but complimented me—probably insincerely—on my technique. At least I didn’t blast off as soon as I penetrated her, which is what my dick wanted to do! The only sign of reality in the situation was that, when I mounted her doggy-style, my fingers slid over two brands indented on her muscular butt: the circle star of a convicted Texas criminal slave, and the larger, script “A” that was the family ranch brand. I had nothing to compare her to at that time, of course, but even now I think of her as both a kind lady and a fantastic fuck! By the way, although there was no discussion of quid pro quo, a few weeks after my birthday, Dad petitioned the parole board to release her a few months short of her 15th year of servitude. He calmly explained that both she and I might be embarrassed to meet each other around the ranch. I think he worried that I might want to have sex with her again, WITHOUT her agreement, which would have been incredibly humiliating for Phyllis. Like I said, Daddy was always fair, even to the livestock.)

After that, my father told me that I could use the pony girls sexually, especially when they were tied down & blindfolded, waiting to service champion stallions, but not to go hog wild about it, and (even though they all had STD testing weekly) to always use a condom. Once or twice, I took him up on that authorization, if only to learn a little bit about how to fondle a woman’s sensitive parts in a way that would pleasure her, but once I began thinking about my friend Julie in such a situation, I stopped using them.

*****

Long story short, Julie reluctantly agreed to indenture herself, and the power of attorney she signed even specified that she could be used sexually and branded at MY discretion—which shows you how much trust we had in each other. In the interim, we went to prom (just a goodnight kiss, but NOT to bed together!) and studied for our last set of high school exams (She got a 5 in AP Calculus, while I felt lucky to pull a 4.) Very quietly, one day in April she saw one of the ranch paramedics who used sterile technique to insert metal rings—for pony reins—onto her nipples, allowing her to heal before she self-indentured. And, even though she knew I would be seeing and touching everything in a few weeks, she refused to let me watch the procedure. Spoilsport!

But she couldn’t avoid my accompanying her, two days after graduation, to the State Agriculture Office where she self-indentured herself to the ranch corporation for five years, in return for which the corporation gave her Mom a check for $60,000 and I promised, informally, to cover any food, books, or other expenses for her to attend MIT. I don’t know which one of us was more embarrassed (or blushed more) when she stripped down afterwards—I did my best to stare at the ceiling until she was ready for the collar, back-hands, and walk-of-shame ceremonies. I also tried to minimize looking at or touching her body until we got back to my truck. I thought the official who certified her indenture was remarkably professional and sensitive not to insist on the blow-job that a female slave traditionally renders to the state registrar on her first and last days in a collar—or perhaps he just didn’t find such a plump young woman attractive. Lord knows I did and struggled not to pop a boner right there in the office. She may have been a little overweight (not that I could cast stones about that), but her prominent boobs and butt looked like epic pony girl material to me, and even her waist was reasonably small. Who knew my nerd genius friend had such a voluptuous body?

*****

(Julie Morrison’s perspective)

Stripping naked in that office, and especially in front of Kevin, was as bad as I had expected, but he was a gentleman who at least TRIED not to stare at or fondle my body. He also walked me briskly out of the Agriculture Department, so only a few hecklers got a chance to criticize or cop a feel of my bound body. And once we got back to his truck, Kev promptly draped a blanket over my front, moved my wrist cuffs from behind to in front of me, and belted me into the passenger seat. When he climbed into the driver’s seat, I thanked him for his consideration; he responded by holding my hand for a moment and telling me how brave I had been.

I needed that courage when we got to the Longhorn Slave Market—he had promised not to sell me or put me up for grading that day, but I did have to be entered into the national data base. So I had to walk naked and cuffed across the parking lot, led on a leash. Kev went straight to the Concierge desk, and they were ready for us, so I didn’t have to further my humiliation by waiting on my knees for a long time. In less than a minute, the concierge put a shock collar on me as I knelt, handed Kev a visitor’s pass, and had a wrangler escort us into the back. (OK, so the wrangler cupped my buttock with his fingers up my crack, but that was frankly less humiliating than I had expected. Truth time: I felt a real tingle between my legs when he fondled me—are you satisfied?)

I later learned that Kev’s Daddy did a LOT of business with the Longhorn, and it showed by the way they gave me the express-lane, hurry-up in-processing. Yeah, of course it was cringeworthy to pose in those revealing positions while the wrangler photographed every inch of my blushing body, all while Kevin couldn’t help but see those things that NO girl wants to show to a guy if she ever hopes to have any form of relationship with him. (At that time I didn’t think I was “in love” with Kev, but face it, who else had ever shown an interest in me?) After the photos, however, I got the identification number tattooed inside my lower lip, the chip inserted between my boobs, and all the necessary data uploaded into the National data base, all while Kev smiled encouragingly and kept his eyes locked on mine. Like I said, a real friend; most 18 year old guys would have taken the opportunity to fondle, photograph, and comment upon my nekkid body. Besides, his presence seemed to deter the wrangler from “sampling my wares” if you know what I mean. The whole process took no time at all, after which Kevin and the wrangler (the latter once again goosing me gently) walked me over to shipping.

I was going to the ranch by poodle express rather than him driving me there. Kevin’s Dad had apologized to me for this but explained that he wanted to avoid drawing any attention to me by special treatment as I began a summer of pony training. I will say that Kevin kept talking to me as an equal, even after I was gagged for shipment. The only thing that surprised me at the time was that my best friend gently bent me, face down with my hands cuffed and my mouth gagged, over the top of the shipping cage. When he pried my buttocks apart, I was afraid for a moment that he was going to take my virginity right there in an open slave market, but instead I felt a lubricated rubber tip gently intrude into my anus. Working VERY gently, Kevin pumped that thing in and out until my starfish stretched sufficiently for the neck of the plug to pop into my rectum, so it wouldn’t come back out. Meanwhile, Kevin explained that his Dad had suggested plugging me NOT to demean me but rather to prepare me for the magnum-sized tail plug, adorned with chocolate brown hair, that I would have to wear during pony training. Put like that, it made sense, but it still meant that my trip in a poodle cage would be even more uncomfortable than I had anticipated. (Being plugged like that, after a morning of naked restraint, also turned me on, but I wouldn’t have admitted that even if I COULD talk.)

Very conscious of my anal invasion, I shuffled backwards on my knees, feet and handcuffs first, into the cage. Kevin and the wrangler then closed the metal fencing “door” of the cage and secured it with a $3.00 toy lock that might have held my diary shut but wouldn’t have been too difficult to break if my hands were free. Speaking of which, I felt the wrangler use zip-ties to secure my cuffs to the back of the cage and my ankles to the rear corners. I was one filly that wasn’t going ANYWHERE until they chose to release me!

Even after that, Kevin kept talking to me quietly, praising my courage and even (once) how pretty I looked, until the DHL van arrived to take me, cage and all, on the second leg of my slave journey. I guess slave mind (which we’d discussed in our 18-years-and-over Slave Studies elective course at Connolly) began to set in, because the idea that my longtime friend and present owner found me sexy gave me another little thrill down THERE, if you know what I mean. I now understood what it meant to be a slave—not only was I completely naked, but I had absolutely no control over what was done to me. Being honest, again, I found my mind wandering towards the possibility of “Master Kevin” using me for sex. Otherwise, the trip was uncomfortable but boring, and I had been stressed out all morning, so I dozed off to the steady, high-speed whine of van wheels on the Interstate.

And woke to the characteristic BEEP-BEEP-BEEP of a backup alarm on the van; we’d arrived at the Adams Ranch (no jokes about Adams Family, please!) I’d visited Kevin a number of times while we were in high school, but this was the first time that Slut Julie, pony-in-training, had arrived slave naked and bound in a poodle cage! Once my cage landed on the loading dock, I felt the three zip-ties being cut after which I was ordered to crawl out of the cage. Some wrangler was droning on about “you have arrived at the Adams Ranch for pony training,” but all that mattered at the moment was that I could see Kevin standing in the corner, out of the way, and grinning at me; I tried to grin back around the canvas gag. After less than a day in a collar, being naked and bound no longer bothered me very much, so long as my friend and owner was watching over me. I felt safe and cared for—slave mind was DEFINITELY setting in!

*****

(Kevin Adams’ perspective)

Both Julie and I spent the summer in training, but rarely together—she was learning to be a pony girl while I had to study the regulations, take a state test, and then get “hands-on” (I hear you snickering) experience as a slave wrangler. Dad had insisted that I could NOT be involved in her training, because “it’s hard enough for a young woman to give up her independence and become an obedient pony slut without having to deal with a male friend watchin’ and touchin’ her every moment. We got enough hormones flying around here already.”

So, for a month, I could only visit her on weekends when she wasn’t being trained. Still, we saw each other a lot—and I saw a LOT of her, since the pony outfit left her legs, butt, and upper chest fully exposed. I have to tell you that the pounds just seemed to melt off her under the stress of constant exercise and a diet that was heavy only on slave kibble and vegetables. After a month, her trainers trimmed the split ends on her growing hair, and that luxurious hair only contributed to her appearance.
When I checked the records at the end of the month, I saw that Julie’s time for the quarter mile had declined by 35 seconds in three weeks while her body took on the lean, leggy, resilient form I had come to associate with champion pony girls. (In case you’re wondering, ponies of all genders ran races of various lengths up to and including two miles. In comparison to stallions, the fact that most females have less capacity to carry oxygen in their blood meant that the quarter-mile time was the informal standard for how fast a pony girl was. The sad-but-true joke was that instead of “Quarter Horses” we now raced “Quarter Whores.”)

Speaking of which, Julie did NOT get pimped out like many other pony girls: no picnic pony rides, no tempting the stallions, etc. Naturally, her trainers sometimes stroked her nipples and clit as a small reward for a good effort, just as they did with other pony girls. And, just as in a slave market, wranglers often cupped a pony’s buttock and goosed her starfish to control her movement. Everyone believed that a horny pony was a successful pony. Moreover, like other trainee ponies she put in time on her knees, practicing fellatio techniques on large rubber dildos secured to a stand at about waist height. But real sex was off the table—like I said, Dad was always fair to people, and he assumed correctly that Julie had enough to deal with in terms of her naked helplessness without being suddenly forced into sex with free men she didn’t know, especially since she had so little social experience even as a free woman. Besides, he said, nobody lets a racing pony, stallion, or any kind of athlete have sex until AFTER they win a race—it’s just poor training to allow them to relax like that.

(That observation was part of my training—part exercise physiology, part applied psychology, and part folk tradition—on how to train slaves and especially human ponies. Dad insisted that I had to have slave handler’s and owner’s licenses to avoid any arguments when I took my friend to Massachusetts.)

After the tough initial weeks of her training, Dad and Mom allowed me to visit her stall and talk to her on Saturday evenings, when she would have 36 hours to readjust her mind even if I upset her. Which I didn’t, at least consciously, although I came to look forward to our talks all week long, and the way she smiled when I showed up suggested she felt the same way. After an uncertain start, I decided that we needed to reduce the constraints of her slavery, by which I meant that instead of standing in the Present position, hands behind her neck in a way that raised her bare breasts for examination, I had her sit down on her bunk, a foot away from me, and wrap herself in the blanket that otherwise remained folded until lights out at 10:00 p.m. Over a series of several Saturdays, we gradually relaxed with each other—she still called me “Master” a few times in case anyone was listening, but eventually she sat with her hip pressed against mine while I, with considerable daring, wrapped my arm around her shoulders so that she could lean on me. (Yes, she was very attractive to me, but I really thought that I owed it to her to give her some physical reassurance when it was my idea that got her into this lonely situation.)

We talked about everything under the sun, but especially about her training since that was the most radical change in either of our lives. She had spent considerable time that week practicing fellatio on the rubber dildos, and she played that scene for laughs, joking about how inept she was. Until she mentioned in passing that, sooner or later, she would have to do it on a “real boy”—thus creating an X-rated version of the Pinocchio story!

We both fell silent at that point, until I haltingly tried to explain that this behavior was an expected part of being a pony girl. She acknowledged that she understood that, but then suddenly changed tack:

“Please, ‘Master,’” she asked, putting a sad little grin on her face at the salutation of respect, “May I give you a blow job?” Naturally, I tried to demure; I didn’t want my only friend to believe that I had tricked her into slavery just so she would give me sexual favors. But Julie was determined; here she was in the midst of a program designed to turn her into a sexualized slave, with ponies all around here getting shafted in all their openings, while she was still a virgin—talk about frustration! After venting like that, she abruptly stood up, neatly folded her blanket, and then knelt in front of me in the approved slave form: naked except for her collar, fingers interlocked behind her neck causing her breasts to jut forward, and her thighs spread so wide that I couldn’t help noticing her erect clit and moist vulva.

“Christ,” I groaned. “You know I can’t resist an offer like that—are you sure, Julie?” She eagerly nodded her head while smiling with parted lips.

“If you insist,” I capitulated, then with a smile I repeated the standard formula in a vain effort to take the sting out of the situation: “Suck my dick, pony slut!”

And boy, did she! I’m absolutely convinced that mine was the first penis she had ever swallowed—hell, probably the first she’d ever seen up close. But as soon as I unzipped, she impaled her mouth on my rigid shaft, and began eagerly licking, kissing, and sucking it. By this time, I’d had—I think—four blow jobs from experienced women beginning with the sainted Phyllis. But Pony Girl Julie’s enthusiasm (in combination with the fact that she was my best/only female friend) more than compensated for any lack of experience. In the approved style for slave sucking, her mouth and eyes were grinning wildly as she looked adoringly into my eyes and slurped her way energetically down my dick. Not five minutes later, I was trying to be gentle while I desperately pulled her face flush with my groin and reveled in the velvet sensations her tongue, lips, and mouth inflicted on me. With a quiet roar, I blasted what felt like a quart of cum into her. And when I finally slumped backwards, she dutifully stuck out her tongue to display a large, sticky deposit for her sperm bank. Then she greedily swallowed without any sign of distaste, licking her lips as if seeking the final few drops of fluid. At least, I had taken to carrying sample bottles of mouthwash in my jeans so that I could give her a chance to rinse out and spit the discharge down the nearest piss grate.

“Damn, ‘Master,’” she said when she sat back down next to me. “That was yummy!” So, I did what my Daddy had taught me, reciprocating for a good blowjob by fondling her to orgasm. The idea was to give positive reinforcement for dick-sucking.

I could have ORDERED her to provide that and other sexual services, but now she had come to like fellatio for its own sake, or at least so she claimed. So I annotated her first blowjob on her records, and thereafter all I heard from her wranglers was that she could peel the paint off anything with her mouth and tongue. Again, who knew my best friend was such a horny sex person?

The big hurdle, of course, was actual intercourse. The very next Saturday, however, she politely asked her “Master” to do her. My Dad approved—he’d been worried about the appearance of favoritism in comparison to the other ponies. Which meant that on the following Tuesday, when Julie was still panting from towing a sulky for three brisk miles, her wrangler tied her, bent over and blindfolded, onto a mounting platform. First, I gave her another taste of cock, which she eagerly slurped while I gently stroked her hair and praised her performance. I had to break away abruptly for fear of painting her face before I’d had the opportunity to approach her other end. After calming down for a few minutes, I mounted behind her on the platform—she was VERY well lubricated, but her sheath still felt like the silkiest fabrics one could ever imagine. I guess all that running had eliminated her hymen, for there was no sign other than a sharp intake of breath that this kind of penetration was brand new to her. And then her butt convulsively pressed backwards, seeking to maximize the thrust. Wanting to ensure that she enjoyed herself, I bent over, whispering praises in her ear while I hefted her breasts out of the bustier before rapidly manipulating her nipples and, a few seconds later, her clit. By the time I ran out of time and discharged deep inside her, my personal pleasure pony was almost vibrating the mounting platform with her shaking and moaning. Now she was a full-fledged pony girl.

Afterwards, I had to think carefully before answering her question about whether I enjoyed what she’d done for me. The truth was, she was even BETTER—far better—as a fuck than Phyllis or the two other mature ponies I had rogered before. How do you tell your best friend, the one you’ve studied, joked, and commiserated with for years, that she’s the absolutely most fantastic fuck in the entire world? I mean, after two months of exercise and dieting she LOOKED like sex on a stick, but beyond that she clearly enjoyed the whole situation—being bent over, tied helplessly like livestock, and pounded by her best friend—that she was not only well-lubricated but responding with great joy. The most difficult thing to do—literally the HARDEST thing to do—was to avoid begging her for permission to do her again the next day. Fortunately, her teen years had been as lonely and frustrating as mine, so she fell into the habit of frequently begging me for sex. No begging required—I just didn’t want to take advantage of her!

*****

The rest of the summer went by in a blaze of heat, exercise, and lust. We didn’t make love EVERY time I visited her on the weekends, but Julie found a new joy in the physicality of her life, in terms of both running and screwing. Even when we were just talking, she constantly felt the need to touch me and press her body against mine.

Before we knew it, it was time to go to Cambridge, Massachusetts, for freshman orientation and fall semester. I insisted that she spend a weekend wearing clothes at her mother’s trailer, then we were off on the second adventure of her life. She had to have her chip checked and wear a dog leash and four-point restraints on the plane, but at least she was permitted to wear clothes. The trip was soon over, at which point I had to turn her over to the wranglers who ran MIT’s newly-constructed slave kennels.

Prior to departure, I had gone over the permission forms with her, so she knew that (1) my parents had paid extra for her keep at the kennels, and in return she was not obligated to work in the attached brothel; (2) she had my permission to have sex with other residents of the kennels if she wished—but as far as I know she never asked; (3) she could volunteer to serve as a subject for any campus job (nude art model, test subject for human physiology, etc.) but should put her classes ahead of those jobs; and (4) she was permitted to leave the kennels, including being away all weekend, with the exception of mandatory curfew hours of 10:30 p.m. to 7:30 a.m. on Sunday evening through Friday morning. She spent a lot more time kenneled than the minimum, but I wanted to give her maximum freedom for studying. While most students slept in as late as possible every day, we met outside the kennels at 7:30 every morning, ate breakfast together, and went off to classes. We did NOT have sex non-stop, as you might expect, but were just two close friends studying frantically together except when one of us (usually her) announced that we needed a fuck break—or sometimes just felt like blowing me in a quiet corner of the library! Believe me, I never even TRIED to exert my authority as her owner!

Well, OK, that’s not completely true. I don’t know whether she enjoyed submitting or just wanted a free pass for being a hot slut, but my darling pony girl had a habit, almost any time we were alone, of asking me—always preceded by the word “Master” in obvious quotation marks—to ORDER her to service me (in one or more of her openings) or strip down or just cuddle with me. What self-respecting 18 or 19 year old guy would object to such a request? I didn’t take a vow of celibacy, and her self-indenture had freed her from the obligation to be a “good girl.” I know, that’s one of those facile contradictions: “she had to give up her freedom to achieve it,” but in this case, at least, it was true.

She quickly missed the regular exercise she’d gotten as a pony, and somehow talked me into trying to run together with her, several times each week. I could see in her face that she was struggling not to laugh at how slowly I ran on the street or the track, so we quickly compromised on treadmills. Even then, she was often running twice as fast as I was—but in my defense, I had trouble staying upright when distracted by the sight of this gorgeous, graceful creature (wearing tight short-shorts and an athletic bra that had difficulty containing her undulating form) that had emerged from my frumpy friend. With apologies to both ladies, imagine a smart, funny woman like Mayim Bialek (“Amy Farah-Fowler”) suddenly reappearing with the same mental processes but the body and athleticism of Lucy Lawless (“Xena”).

On campus, “my little pony” occasionally encountered prejudice, either people (mostly guys) insulting her as promiscuous or other people (mostly gals) trying to convince her to flee her slavery. I had to buy her a high tech cellphone so that she could call me or (twice) the campus police to get free of such ignoramuses (ignorami?) Fortunately, we had identical schedules freshman year, so we were rarely apart except when she was kenneled. One time when she DID speed-dial me, I hurried over to find her deep in discussion with three well-intentioned “Yankee” young women, who clearly thought she’d been brainwashed into submission. Sensing that they weren’t a physical threat to her, I slowed to a halt some ten feet behind Julie and listened as she talked in a non-stop stream of gratitude to my parents, affection for me, and endorsement for a legal system that enabled her to get into shape (no one looking at her could argue about that) while she received an education free of the kind of chronic debt that plagued most young Northerners. Listening to her, I was overjoyed to know that she was satisfied with the situation, even though her three auditors kept trying to dissuade her. Finally, I walked up, being careful NOT to touch her, and asked her if she were ready to go to the library. The look of welcoming love on her face reinforced my happiness, and before I could blink, SHE asked the women to excuse us, pulled my arm around her waist, and set off with a smile on her face and spring in her step.

After we survived the first semester’s worth of exams, we flew home for the holidays. Once again, federal law required her to be restrained from boarding through deplaning, but she remained cheerful throughout. Mom picked us up at baggage claim and drove us home. I insisted that Julie spend Christmas week with HER mother, which left me kind of bummed out and disoriented by the sudden withdrawal of the support system with which I had spent every one of the preceding 100 days. My parents were under no illusions as to why I was so listless, but they didn’t say anything except to encourage me to catch up on missed sleep.
As soon as I picked Julie up after Christmas, she persuaded me that it was only appropriate for her to go back into her stall and resume her life as a pony girl (although my parents and the entire ranch staff turned a blind eye when I spent most nights cuddling—not necessarily screwing—with her in that narrow bunk.) Every night, as she settled into my arms, she emitted a contented noise that sounded very much like purring!

*****

Second semester was a repetition on the first, with us spending most of our time studying or just goofing around with each other. At the start of the summer, we were lucky enough to get our first internship together, which meant that she could move OUT of the kennels and INTO a dingy apartment (with me) near the Park Street MTA station. She did most of the cooking, not because I expected her to but because she wanted to control our caloric intake—between that and running in the parks, we both ended the summer healthier and happier than we had begun. Part of my improvement was due to a belated growth spurt, but overall I was physically and mentally better off than ever in my life. A quick trip home to visit our respective parents, and then it was on to sophomore year.

In many ways, our lives were idyllic—the intellectual challenge and excitement of a good education in a big city, the fun of spending time together as best friends, and the sensuality of regular sex with someone you cared a great deal for. Most of our “vacation time,” like that summer after freshman year, was actually consumed by internships, which we usually were able to get with the same firm if not necessarily in the same lab or office. We often had LESS sex during internships, simply because we were both so busy, but she always insisted on snuggling together at night and running together on the weekends. While we never talked about it, I felt that we had graduated from best friends to lovers, and not just because she was insatiable for sex!

Coming up to the end of junior year, neither of us had found an appropriate internship for the summer, and besides we both needed to spend some time reconnecting with our parental units. Once we realized that the summer would be free, however, Julie began gently working on me, daring me to undergo pony boy training. She gave me all kinds of arguments for it, but especially the ideas that I would get into shape and better understand the psychology of the family business. I warned her that I would never be as fast as she was, but that didn’t deter her.

Very hesitantly, therefore, I brought the subject up on the phone, beginning with my Mom (who saw all the advantages and kept her worries to herself) and then, with her support, talking to my Dad. My father naturally disapproved of the idea, feeling that I would somehow discredit the authority of slave wranglers by assuming the slave role myself; I think Mom reminded him that this would keep me “in touch” with the family business that I would eventually inherit. Ultimately, my father agreed to let me sign a Free-In-Name-Only (FINO) contract for two months as a trainee “stallion”—even using that word seemed presumptuous to me, because the stallions on our ranch were incredibly muscular and macho guys who could run all day. At least one of them, in fact, had been one of the muscle-bound bullies who had made my life miserable in Connolly High School—only now he was living up to his potential by serving 12 years as a circle star criminal slave for a fatal crash when he was driving under the influence of seven beers. I DID ask Dad to keep me away from THAT asshole, and he agreed.

Legally, being a FINO required advanced permission from a Texas-certified slave psychiatrist. Mom set me up for video consultations with a famous slave shrink whom I had met, briefly, at various industry events when I was younger—Doctor Nikki Sheldon. I dreaded having to explain my crazy idea to a beautiful, almost famous woman who knew me and especially my parents, but “Doctor Nikki” was incredibly sensitive in our discussions. She wormed out of me that I was doing this at the urging of my own slave, which in turn meant that Nikki wanted to talk privately to Julie. I guess Julie convinced her that she wanted to improve my health, not inflict retribution on me, so Nikki eventually agreed to be my psychiatrist Guardian ad Litem for the FINO contract.

*****

Without any urging from Julie, I really ramped up my exercising in preparation for this terrifying experience and kept up the running and weight-lifting during the first ten days we were back in Texas, visiting our respective parents.

Dad was understandably embarrassed to be seen in public apparently enslaving his own son, so he got his signature on the contract notarized and sent it along with his stable manager, Alejandro Cortes, on the day I had to in-process at the Longhorn. “Alex” (whom I must now call Master) thought I was loco to do this, naturally, but he played his part perfectly. But the REAL humiliation was that my OWN MOTHER walked me into the slave market bound, naked, and on a leash. Talk about being emasculated—I might as well have worn a diaper! Fortunately, Doctor Nikki was waiting for us at the Concierge Desk, so I was only on my knees for a few moments while above me the “Free people” completed, notarized, and digitized the FINO contract. Then a slave wrangler took my cuffed, collared, and slave-naked body back to process me, including photographs, chipping, SIN tattooing, and so on. No, he didn’t demand a blow job; I suspect my Dad had asked the management to ensure I was treated with kid gloves. Very quickly, Mom and “Master Alex” walked with me back to shipping where—just like Julie—I got the cold surprise plug up my butt before being gagged and strapped helpless into a poodle cage for shipment. Helpless and dreading what was about to happen, I had to breathe deeply and try to remain calm throughout the uncomfortable journey back to the Adams Ranch. The idea, of course, was to avoid drawing attention to me as the heir to the throne, so to speak—but the way I was treated, I’m certain that all the wranglers on our ranch knew the identity of this less-than-muscular trainee stallion.

The first two weeks of my training were exhausting. Three years earlier, I had learned how ponies were expected to trot, canter, etc., but actually DOING all that in the heat of a Texas summer, especially while towing a sulky with a jockey who weighed as much as I did, was incredibly demanding. Every night in my stall, I gobbled my vegetable-and-kibble supper, took a 2-minute shower, and collapsed onto the bunk, having to awaken at oh-dark-thirty to do it all over again. And don’t even get me started about that damn ponytail butt plug!

On occasion, I caught a glimpse of Julie, looking cool, beautiful, and incredibly swift as she trained for the summer racing season—she actually won her race once in July, and the rest of the time (I’m told) often hung in to finish second or third against more experienced pony girls.

After a month of physical agony, I was finally beginning to move and pull like a real stallion, even though I doubted I would ever be fast enough to place in a race. At that point someone—I strongly suspect my Mom—intervened to make my life as a stallion infinitely better. One Monday after a race weekend, I found myself tacked up tandem-style with—you guessed it—Pony Girl Julie. With bits in our mouths, we could only smile at each other rather than talk, and in any case I needed all my breath for running. But her presence made it not only psychologically but physically easier to pull a sulky—she was probably doing 60 percent of the work even though we ran side by side. Better still, that night when our bits, arm bindings, and other tack were removed, she was put into the same stall with me! If you had asked me ahead of time, I would have told you I was too damned tired for sex, but Julie wouldn’t take “no” for an answer—“we’re just two slave sluts together in a stall—daily sex is just part of your endurance training, buster!” And she was right—I COULD do it and enjoy myself. She also used her mouth to revive my erection so that Pony Girl Julie could give me another ride! When we were both worn out, she cuddled and held me on that narrow bunk, whispering compliments and caressing me quietly until we fell asleep.

After that, my FINO life was infinitely better, at least psychologically. I got better quarter-mile times both tandem with Julie and on my own, and “Master Alex” grudgingly allowed that I might actually be a half-ass decent stallion if I kept at it for a year—which was a safe promise, since he knew I was going back to Massachusetts at the end of the summer.

*****

That summer gave me not only incredible stamina and physical fitness but three other things as well. First, of course, was a profound understanding of the challenges facing any pony slave, an understanding that stood me in good stead during future years of training them. Second was a very odd tan pattern—face, arms, belly, and legs darkened from the Texas sun, but a bare stretch of white skin on my neck where my collar had been. Afterwards, I had to use a lot of artificial tanning lotion to at least reduce the contrast, otherwise I looked (and sometimes felt) like a runaway slave.

My final memento of that summer in a collar was my own damn fault—when Julie had insisted that I needed to be trained as a stallion, my last defense had been to dare her, with an air of bravado, that if I finished the summer then we would BOTH have to get the Adams Ranch brand on our right rear buttocks. Up until now, Julie had been exempt from the branding that marked all our other ponies, if only because I couldn’t bear the idea of her suffering like that. But when I threw down the challenge, her only response was a deep breath followed by “If that’s what it takes . . .”

So now, in my final week of training, I had to put MY ass where my mouth was! My Mom came down to accompany me to the Ranch blacksmith, but I noticed that she turned away, unable to bear the sight of her “little boy” getting the cursive A seared into his butt. (To be fair, she had never liked the idea of ANYONE being branded, but it was even worse for her own child. She tried to talk me out of it, but with false bravado I had told her that even Dad couldn’t question my commitment to the ranch if I were willing to let them brand me!)

So Julie and I were strapped down onto adjacent restraint frames, and while she got an orgasm from the nearly-traditional friction of a branding handle, Dad provided a young pony girl, kneeling beneath the frame, to suck me off. Not that I could really focus on those lips, but she wasn’t nearly as good as my darling Julie. Thank heavens for the bite stick, which prevented me from shaming myself when the iron hit my skin!

For the remaining three weeks before school started, Julie and I were miserable despite ibuprofen and local anesthetic. The second week, when the wound had begun to heal and I was restored to clothing and personal freedom, I started sneaking into Julie’s stall so that we could spoon together, both lying on our left sides. It helped us sleep. I said “sneaked,” but of course the night firewatch wrangler in that barn annotated my arrival and departure on his log—my parents never said anything about it.

*****

That shared experience not only cemented our relationship but gave us an irrefutable response to all the well-intentioned abolitionists who tried to “liberate” Julie. Twice while we were out running—and yes, I could finally keep up with her!—in the Boston parks, a scandalized person would notice not only her collar but also, when her short-shorts rode up, the brand on her ass. With a straight face, I slid up the hem of my shorts to display an IDENTICAL brand and told them the truth but not the whole truth—that brand was a badge of honor for our shared experiences on my family ranch. The look on their faces as we sped off, laughing, was almost worth the pain of branding. Almost.

We finished MIT without flunking out, which is sometimes the highest claim one can make about such a challenging program. Two days later, we had shipped our books and belongings home and moved out of our last apartment. We both had entry-level jobs waiting for us in Dallas, starting a month later.
Neither of us said anything, but I thought that Julie HAD to be aware that this date was the anniversary of her indenture. She was legally free, even though we still had to go to the Texas Agriculture Department when we got back to register her return to freedom.
Waiting at Logan Airport for the flight to Dallas, she excused herself to go to the ladies’ room, and then returned WITHOUT her slave collar on. I figured that was my cue, so as soon as she sat down beside me, I knelt down and pulled out a plastic box with an engagement ring. Before I could even get the words out, she announced, quite loudly, “Yes, I’ll marry you; what took you so long, you damn fool?” The people sitting around us at the gate had noticed my gesture and applauded, at which point we both stood up and embraced.

With her lips next to my ear, my new fiancée and former pony slave whispered, “There’s just one thing I want when we get married.” I looked a question at her, and she continued whispering, “You have to sign another FINO contract giving your body to me. I figure you owe me almost five years of oral service, and every night I expect to hear my little slut boy begging, “Please, Mistress, may I lick your pussy?”

“Fair’s fair,” I replied—“It’s a deal, Mistress.”

(The End)
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Re: Nerd Pony

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I came away from this story thinking about how being a ponygirl is just plain old healthy exercise. A lot of women pay big bucks on fad diets and exercise programs to lose weight. Why not a ponygirl boot camp? Customers melt away the extra pounds from plenty of quality time outdoors exercising and the corresponding healthy diet. No down time here. If you are not training, you are engaged in extracurricular sexual activities. Not only do participants get in great shape, but they get more sex than they can handle. How about extended bachelorette parties to help the bride lose those last few pounds becuase she ordered her wedding dress two sizes too small. Or a business team building retreat?
:tiphat:
Last edited by Mr. Smith on Fri Feb 25, 2022 3:16 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: Nerd Pony

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Nice to have a happy ending to a slave story!

Well, a mutually happy ending. Normally it's a bit one-sided...
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Re: Nerd Pony

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Mr. Smith suggested having a Pony Girl Ranch offer a program for someone such as a bride-to-be losing weight and getting in shape. My evil mind immediately took that to the extreme, although in the process I may be borrowing from some of Zeechromosome's plot, so for now let me just float the idea:

Rich but slightly spoiled girl AND HER BRIDESMAIDS sign FINO contracts for a month-long "Pony Spa" as an extended Girls' Night Out, complete with more exercise than they wanted, a diet rich only in carrots and slave kibble, and frequent sexual use. THEN the groom and HIS party sign up for a similar FINO pony deal as the longest bachelor's party ever, only they start out getting to mount "ordinary" pony girls but then get put on a chastity program for the final week (have to rest up for the big race). At the end of a month, the two groups run heats (as in everyone is in heat)--just as in some racing systems, the guys have to pull heavier weights to make things more equal. Each heat is two pony girls vs two pony boy/stallions. Losers get tied to mounting/mating stands so that winners can mount or peg them--while the rest of the wedding party watches, and the bride and groom get deluxe video packages. How's that for humiliation mixed with sex and submission?
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Re: Nerd Pony

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You could have "Ginger's Ponygirl Spa" at the Spinning Wheel bringing back Ginger for another story or two. She can personally show off the positive aspects of the all-inclusive ponygirl fitness regimen.

If you do an extended bachlorette party include both future mother-in-laws. Think of the fun times they could have getting to know each other. The men will appreciate getting back fitter hypersexualized women who now enjoy anal sex. Oh, the possibilities. How about the bachelor party being held at the Spinning Wheel and the men use the bachelorette party for entertainment? It would be one of those the guys do not recognize the women when they are naked PGs much like Flame was hiding in plain sight in you other story. You could even have the groom bang his future mother-in-law talking about how tight her ass is (after 4 weeks at the spa).
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Re: Nerd Pony

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Loving the consensual angle and how Julie is discovering her submissive side... and I was _not_ expecting the second part, great twist and beautiful ending :)

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Re: Nerd Pony

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Mr. Smith wrote: Thu Feb 24, 2022 6:51 am I came away from this story thinking about how being a ponygirl is just plain old healthy exercise. A lot of women pay big bucks on fad diets and exercise programs to lose weight. Why not a ponygirl boot camp? Customers melt away the extra pounds from plenty of quality time outdoors exercising and the corresponding healthy diet. No down time here. If you are not training, you are engaged in extracurricular sexual activities. Not only do participants get in great shape, but they get more sex than they can handle. How about extended bachelorette parties to help the bride lose those last few pounds becuase she ordered her wedding dress two sizes too small. Or a business team building retreat?
:tiphat:
I've been toying with a concept I'm calling "Perfect Spa for Submissive Women", a famed resort that allows women to leverage their submissive side to get the best treatments possible. Customers "check in" for a few days of treatment, with a variety of activities to choose from mediated by their assigned "mentor" to cater to the customer's needs and wishes.

Ponygirl training hadn't occurred to me, that really is the perfect weight loss treatment plan the resort could provide :)
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Re: Nerd Pony

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red_phoenix wrote: Fri Feb 25, 2022 8:52 pm

I've been toying with a concept I'm calling "Perfect Spa for Submissive Women", a famed resort that allows women to leverage their submissive side to get the best treatments possible. Customers "check in" for a few days of treatment, with a variety of activities to choose from mediated by their assigned "mentor" to cater to the customer's needs and wishes.

Ponygirl training hadn't occurred to me, that really is the perfect weight loss treatment plan the resort could provide :)

Or, you could try to develop a new concept that would make your story stand out. Maybe women have to work as a bicycle courier - wearing only helmet, gloves and shoes...

We already have a few people doing the ponygirl angle. But there are plenty of fitness activities that could be undertaken by nude women.
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Re: Nerd Pony

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SteveBurke wrote: Sat Feb 26, 2022 2:44 am Or, you could try to develop a new concept that would make your story stand out. Maybe women have to work as a bicycle courier - wearing only helmet, gloves and shoes...

We already have a few people doing the ponygirl angle. But there are plenty of fitness activities that could be undertaken by nude women.
Point taken :) Right now I'm mostly thinking of incorporating a bondage/submissive twist in classic relax activities: classics like massages, physiotherapy and health assessments, but also lighter activities like cooking and painting classes. The idea is that resort provides experts on all such activities and allows women to experience them fully, in ways that they might simply not encounter elsewhere.

One framing I have in mind is that this place is popular with shy women who are afraid they might not be able to get their full needs satisfied elsewhere, but also with more expert and seasoned clients (some of the mentors have been clients themselves before) and keeps a positive, light tone—yet, some customers find that they can explore their submissive side here much better than they've had even fantasized before... the best treatments can be demanding after all!

Thing is, I don't have that much experience writing and I should probably go for smaller targets before embarking in such a varied scenario. I also don't want to hijack the thread of a great story, I just liked the angle the participants take in it and was intrigued by the fitness angle.

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Re: Nerd Pony

Post by DonMarco »

Another great one from Carl. Very likable characters, great storytelling.
And by coincidence, I stumbled over this a day ago.
I would like to dedicate this to a great author. Enjoy.

Julie after her training
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Re: Nerd Pony

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I just found this story. Just Awesome.
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