Pony Introduced

When he told me to come to his house I had no idea what was going to happen. It was a beautiful fall day with warm golden sunlight. Perhaps the last beautiful day of the year. When I pulled into his place, he stood out to meet me on the porch. "How are you feeling?" he asked. "Are you tired?"

"No," I said. "I'm really happy to see you. I'm not tired at all." Though I had been up late last night helping a friend, I felt wide awake. I'd had little sleep, but I was curious to know what our adventures would look like today. He was a fairly new lover, though we'd been playing BDSM games for a few months. I was enjoying the things we did, and I trusted him to ensure that we both enjoyed everything in the future as well.

He kissed me. The feel of his soft lips against mine always lulled me, almost instantly, into a seemingly-drugged state of pleasure. I wanted to kiss him for hours. And do everything else. He was a lover I never saw enough of, never could consume enough of. I wanted whatever he wanted, since it would happen with him.

He grabbed my shoulders and looked at me. "Today, you are mine to do whatever I want with. Is that OK?"

"Yes," I whispered.

"And what I want is for you to lose all semblance of even your humanity for me. I want to transform you into a beast who accepts everything I want. I will turn you into an animal that I may ride, or chase, or tie up, or whip."

My head lolled back, and I was already too aroused to even agree.

"You have to tell me if you accept this," he insisted.

"I agree."

His eyes flared with a quick flash of something—was it happiness? Love? Pure sadistic anticipation? All of the above?

He propelled me by the shoulders down into a space in his home I'd never been at before—the storage area under the loft area we sometimes had sex in. I had thought it was just a garage. I'd been told it was full of furniture and objects stored for his family.

All this was true, I found, as he began to lead me through a maze of piled boxes and sofas and tables. But in the far corner of the room, behind a large stack of wooden crates, and in an area lit by high windows and a glass-paned door, I saw some all sorts of objects. Ropes. Some leather pieces of tack hung on hooks beneath a shelf with mysterious things on it. A wooden crate with a cushion atop it. This corner of the storage room looked like a cross between a stable—complete with a few bales of straw—and a dungeon, with menacing iron rings bolted to the wall, and to a post at the edge of the area.

That's when I realized that the teasing comments he had been making about dressing me up as his ponygirl were not just jokes, or distant fantasies. This talk was directly indicative of what would be happening to me. Right then.

He lead me to the tall post that was at the center of the space, and held the back of my neck with one large hand. "Stand here and don't move," he commanded.

I waited patiently, enjoying the feel of him holding me with that one hand, as his other hand reached out toward the straps of black leather that hung on hooks along the wall. He lifted some strappy thing from one hook, then held them up for me to see.

It was a bit with leather straps. Rubber and black, like a stick that would be placed between my teeth to gag me and capture me. I pulled my head away in alarm, but his hand on the back of my neck held me securely as his other hand shoved the bit gag into my mouth, and then he pressed my body against the post with his own body as both of his hands moved swiftly to buckle the bit's harness around my head, one strap over my ponytail, and another strap beneath it lower on my head.

One of his hands wrapped around long strips of leather dangling from the bit's metal hardware. These were the reins. And before I knew it, he had control over my head, and could it move to any angle, restrain it, or trap me against the post.

He took the reins and wound them around one of the rings high on the post, which pulled my chin upward and arched my head slightly backward. I was looking at the ceiling, with no recourse but for him to tie the reins swiftly to the ring.

Then he pulled out some matching black leather cuffs, and strapped them onto my wrists. He lifted my hands up next to my shoulders, fastening the cuffs with a strap behind my neck. My arms were immobile.

I was trapped.

"First we must prepare you for this harness." He began to undress me, unbuttoning my shirt, and drawing it off my shoulders, unhooking my bra, pulling my skirt down over my hips, then my panties. He admired the over-the-knee black socks on my legs, and decided to leave them on, but removed my low-heeled boots. Then he wrapped leather cuffs around my ankles, and I was hobbled, though the strap that joins the cuffs was a couple of feet long. I would be able to take steps, though small ones. Next, he held out a pair of very high heeled shoes—at least 5", with a platform in front. They were shiny black patent leather. He bent down and placed these onto my feet, helping me wiggle my feet into them.

Suddenly I was much taller. My chin was no longer tilted up and held by the tied reins. I could look around more easily. I looked at him. He was beautiful, this man. Blue-eyed, with expressive and sardonic eyebrows. A shock of pale hair. He was tall with broad shoulders and big hands. I loved to look at him, to see the smirk of quiet deviltry that his face seemed generally fixed in.

But I was unable to see when he brought out a pole, at first. He had turned away. But then I saw it; the pole was perhaps 3 feet long, stout, with some sort of rubber foot at the bottom. At the top was something faintly alarming—a large black rubber object with one bump moving down into a larger bump, like three rubber balls of increasing size melded together. It was perhaps 1.5" in diameter at the top, but the bottom was about 4" in diameter—or more. It looked enormous and heavy.

He told me what it was for, "This is a way to keep you from moving much as I harness you. I am going to place this inside you, and lower you, and you will have to keep the stick it's attached to stable while I'm busy."

He flicked a crop he pulled from the shelf at my ankles to signal that I should spread them. He swatted my legs to spread them shoulder width apart, then a little wider.

He brought the black rubber object up to my oil-slicked pussy, and rubbed it against me. He pulled it away, drizzled more oil onto it, then returned it to tease at my labia. Slowly he wedged the first ball into me, pushing it a bit, waiting for me to relax around it, pushing it in again. Immediately, the second bump felt too large for me to bear, but he just kept pressing. I had no way to stop him. My hands were useless in their cuffs.

There was simply no way the third and largest part of the rubber object would fit inside me, however. He tried for a moment, then stopped, and placed the other end of the pole against the floor down directly between my two feet. This action wedged the object a little deeper inside of me. He used the crop to again swat at my legs, telling me to spread my feet even wider. This made the object push in further.

"Good," he said, and patted my ass firmly in approval.

He brought out the first part of the harness. It was a tall collar with a ring in the front and a locking clasp in the back. He locked it onto my neck with a small silver lock.

He reached down and checked my stretched labia—seeing if the rubber object was still stretching me open. It was. It couldn't not be; the pole was securely lodged inside me. He said, "Now we'll take off these shoes for a few minutes."

I was shocked. The pole was tall enough that even in the shoes the rubber object was pressed hard into me. If I removed the shoes, I would be shorter and it would press harder! Could I even bear it?

I found out right away. He held my hand to assist me in stepping out of the heels and lowering me several inches. It hurt. The object inside me was rammed harder inside, and I was stretched so open I felt like a fruit, burstingly ripe.

One I was steady (sort of) on my feet he turned and picked up an object from the shelf where he'd retrieved the bit and reins. I looked over, and saw that it was a palm-sized brush, and the handle was a strap that curved over the back of his hand. It was a dandy brush, used for currying horses. He held it up to show me, and smirked, "Next time maybe we'll try a real curry comb, but I'm being gentle today." He laughed.

I shivered. A curry comb has sharp plastic teeth. But that dandy brush looked stiff and bristly. I wondered what he was going to do with it. Brush my hair? I didn't think that was likely.

I did not have long to wait to learn his intentions. He began at my back, skating the brush in long strokes down my skin. The bristles were very stiff, and I could feel them dig into me as he increased the pressure of the strokes. Each bristle felt like a needle-worth of pain, but was immediately brushed over by the next bristle, and the next, until each pass of the brush erupted with painful trails of friction. He moved the brush downward, over my ass, and scrubbed it over me. I felt the heat in my skin bloom. He brushed the backs of my thighs above the socks. I whimpered at the sensation on my tender pale skin.

Then he turned me, rotating me on the pole and object inside me, and began the same procedure along my front half. First he scrubbed over my arms, but in a rather perfunctory way. There was a preferred target: He began to brush over my breasts. Soft and slow at first, but even that was so rough on my nipples! And he was only "nice" for a moment, in any case. Soon he was swiftly abrading my nipples, until they were awash with fire, then my belly, then lower. I shrieked against the bit with the pain of it.

The dandy brush was between my legs, on my upper thighs, and I whimpered once more, and tried to twist away. But I could do nothing, and soon he was enthusiastically brushing over my bare shaven pussy. He bumped the brush into the pole, brushed around it. He caught my labia with the harsh bristles and scrubbed them. It hurt excruciatingly, but I soon felt a familiar warm sensation of bliss overcoming me. Pain was transmuting to pleasure. I opened up to the sensations and allowed them to just happen, without trying to decide if what he was doing hurt or felt good.

After several minutes of the grooming exercise, he stopped. Then he poured some sweet-scented oil into his hands and vigorously rubbed me down with the oil, all over. The contact of the oil seared against my abraded skin, but also seemed to prolong the sensation of a hot glow at the surface of my flesh.

Then he murmured, "You need to accept that entire hitch into your pussy. It's what will attach to the cart you'll be pulling. So please spread your feet slightly wider."

I couldn't imagine how I was going to accept that thing further into me, but I inched my feet apart slightly. He swatted my ass with the crop. I moved them further apart. The pole pressed that enormous knob of hard rubber inexorably into my aching pussy, painfully, too big and somehow not big enough, until I felt like I was swallowing the world, so stretched I was. I could feel a drop of moisture begin to trickle down my thigh. I was awash, so aroused.

He began to pull more strips of clinking black leather and silver fittings off the hooks. The first piece he wrapped around my chest, one strap above my breasts and one below. He fastened these straps behind me, pulling them tight, then tighter, until he could not pull any more. I immediately felt the skin tautening and the constriction forcing them to swell. He hooked the chest harness to a loop on my collar. It was so tight, breathing seemed like an optional activity.

The next strap was wider and sprinkled with d-rings and buckles. It was a belt with many points at which wrists or other things may be snapped into various positions with ease. He fastened it. Then he locked it with another tiny silver lock, like the one holding my collar in place.

He began buckling and snapping straps onto this belt. I felt him brush against me as he moved around me. I could feel the rubber hitch pressing and pressing into me. Then a wider strap was added, which covered my pussy with a swathe of hardened leather, but he did not fasten it in place Yet. He left the pole in place for the time being.

He pulled on straps that encircled my thighs, and attached them so they looked like garters hooked to the belt at my waist. A few smaller belts around my arms stretched my chest open, harder against the straps, as he bound my arms behind me.

He attached these arm cuffs to a hook higher on the post, which had an immediate effect. I was forcefully canted forward, bent, my arms pulled up behind me, spread legged, with a large rubber object impaled and held inside of me by a wooden pole that swung and swiveled slightly as I moved. I could not move at all.

He rubbed his groin against my hip as he moved around to my angled chest. He tugged at nipples that were alarmingly swollen from the bindings. Then he attached clover clamps to each nipple. These clamps had a ring at the end of each, and dangling from the ring, a large bell. They rattled resonantly as he squeezed the clamps over my nipples and then tugged the clamps downward, to tighten them up further. And to jingle the bells. The bite of the clamps grounded me in the sensation, like an anchor that keeps me fully embodied.

Finally I heard him rattling around in a cabinet. I tried to swivel around to see what he was doing, but I was pinned perfectly in place.

When I felt him begin to slick lubricant over my ass, I had a sense of what was coming. I was alarmed—how would I fit something in my ass with this behemoth inside my pussy? There simply was no room.

But he wasn't deterred. He began to rub something icy cold and smooth up and down the crack of my bottom, slicked over my wide-stretched labia and back upward. I felt something brushing against my legs with the motions. Then he started to press a plug into me. At the best of times, accepting something into my ass is a challenge for me, but when I am already too full...I began to struggle against my bonds, and against the pole holding me in place.

I could barely move, though the pole twisted as I did. As I tried ineffectually to escape the pressure that was consuming me, I wiggled against all the black leather that constricted me. I heard the bells ringing and the clink of buckles, the tiny creaks of stretching leather. But I could not get free of either the black rubber hitch and pole, nor the plug that continued to press into me. At the point where I thought to myself, "Is now the appropriate time for a safeword?" he seated the plug inside me completely. I staggered a bit from the overwhelming sensation, but he caught my hips and forced me to stay still.

All I could feel was the tug and sway of the bells and clamps on my nipples, the sensations of being stretched—melding until I just had an explosion of pleasure-pain between my legs. And his hands holding me.

I was trembling from the intensity of the sensations.

Then he lowered my arms, easing them down from being pulled up behind me. This allowed me to straighten, but when I tried to do so, it made the pressing sensation from the pole almost more than I can bear. Almost.

He unwrapped my reins from the ring on the post, and tugged my chin back so I had to unbend, to stand tall, even though this pressed the plug and hitch against each other very hard. As I straightened I felt a swish against my legs—the plug had a tail attached to it. He forced my feet back into the high heeled shoes. The pole was given a bit of room and suddenly the pressure eased enough that I did not need to end our play from the sensations overpowering me. I could manage. Barely.