A Good Pony

Today, Mirage was especially longing for her handler to arrive. As soon as the first rays of sunlight had lit up the barn, she had awoken with that deep urge. The same urge that was bothering her for days on end. But today was that day again, when she might be granted release from her hardship.

Pressing her haltered head against her stall's door, she was just able to see the gate of the barn. But no matter how much the ponygirl whimpered and pawed, it remained closed. What took him so long?! Didn't he know what day was today?!

Mirage nearly leapt from joy and impatience as the sounds of steps and voices trickled in and finally the gate swung open. In strolled the handlers on duty, and amidst them her own!

As he slid the door to her stall open, she welcomed him exuberantly. Of course ponies didn't speak, but her noises of excitement and rubbing against him brought the point across quite well.

"Whoa, easy...!"

He connected a simple lead to her halter and walked her out for her morning routine. He fully understood the nature of her state, and he was more than happy to do something about it. But first things first.

After grooming and feeding her, he led Mirage to the tacking area at the barn's eastern end. Today's tack didn't differ from her normal gear in any way except for her tail. For this semi-special occasion her handler selected a tail plug with a structured surface - nothing wicked, just something that would soon enough sent her into overdrive. To be able to fit her with it he left the crotch strap dangling for the time being, yet buckled the rest of her harness tight. The supple leather followed and supported Mirage's curves perfectly and provided sturdy anchorage points for her folded arms to be secured high to her back. Mirage gasped as her hands came to rest between her shoulder blades. The handler affixed her wrists and elbows in this position for now, not without searching her shoulder muscles for any signs of cramps or knots. Later, when her ligaments have had time to accommodate again, he would shorten the wrist belt some more notches.

Only now he took the halter off and replaced it with her bridle. Obediently Mirage opened her mouth for the smooth curb bit. This instrument, cold on her tongue, could hurt her a lot. It was supposed to have this potential. But Mirage had learnt that the pain it inflicted was not for the sake of pain, but to correct and guide her. Before anything else, the steel bit was a powerful communicative device.

The sun, fully risen by now behind the high-set windows, turned buckles, rings and rivets agleam. As the handler fetched Mirage's pony boots, their horseshoes picked up the morning light as well, if a bit more dully. This was a non-standard tacking order, due to her being quite tall. Tending to his filly's bridle from all sides proved to be tricky when she was balancing en pointe on six centimetre thick hooves.

The boots were laced in the back so the handlers could notice when a strap became undone during driving their ponygirls from a sulky. To prevent this in the first place as well as any kind of tampering, a lockable leather flap covered each bow. Not that Mirage had ever tried to tinker with her tack. Good ponies didn't do such naughty things.

With her tacking almost completed, only one essential item remained - the tail, boon and bane of every ponygirl.

Mirage was still a bit tender from her morning enema and yesterday's late stint to the old mill, so her handler caught with the plug a fair amount of the natural lubricant glistening between her legs. An inexhaustible supply of this tell-tale secretion was provided, courtesy of the cussed chastity device she - like all ponies - had to wear whenever not groomed or in tack.

The filly held her breath as the egg-sized bulb slid home, yet couldn't stifle a gasp when it settled in fully. Her sphincter closed tightly around the stem, leaving the fluffy part of the tail protruding from between her buttocks in a flamboyant arc. Nothing said pedigree like good tail carriage.

Tight went the crotch strap, parting her labia and locking her plug by means of a retainer ring. Despite experience and expectancy Mirage briefly went up on hoof tips as the tapered intruder seated itself even deeper. Her handler busied himself with rechecking the multitude of straps and buckles for loose or chaffing parts. Designed to be inescapable, heavy-duty bridles and harnesses sported an inherent risk of straying from strict to over-restrictive. Although keeping his ministration strictly professional it didn't prevent his charge from whinnying in eagerness. It was not uncommon for a pony to develop a crush on her handler. And whilst it could complicate their relation in certain constellations, it was considered harmless in the majority of cases.

After some final adjustments on her wrist belt and blinkers the handler produced two identical accessories from the pocket of his waxed jacket. Ponies loved or loathed their sweet chime, not one was ever indifferent to it. Belonging to the former group, Mirage joyfully presented her harness-supported breasts, and her handler fitted the bells to her nipple rings. Their main purpose was to allow blinkered ponygirls to locate each other more easily when not reined.

With these last insignia of ponydom in place, Mirage was hitched to her sulky. A moment later she sensed her handler mounting it. Her excitement reached preliminary fever pitch, to which the flick of the buggy whip to her right buttock was pure release. At once she fell into a walk, pulling the manned cart behind. Her harness, properly crafted and fitted, distributed the load evenly across her torso. Immediately the calming effects of the blinkers set in, as her field of vision was focussed on the open barn door and the world beyond.

Once outside she felt her handler work the reins for the first time today. Her bit transferred his command to turn left without the slightest delay. The curved steel bar was sitting snuggly in the stretched corners of her mouth - certainly not a comfortable arrangement. But a wobbly bit would not only defeat the purpose, it would also quickly become irritating and even painful in its own way.

Down the limber-up path they travelled, now in a light trot, towards the wrought iron gate covered in ivy. It marked the stud's north-western perimeter, and once Mirage pulled through it, the whip demanded a faster trot. To the sounds of her reinforced hooves and belled nips she ran past ancient dry stone walls, dew-wet meadows and gnarled willows. Morning fog was still lingering in hollows near the tree line, and the cool air felt invigorating on her body overheated by a fortnight of abstinence. However, the benign ridges across her tail plug's surface made for an interesting experience indeed.

Upon entering the woods she changed her gait again. The canter was more intricate than walk and trot, and Mirage accentuated every move for her handler to acknowledge. Near the brook that gurgled to the old mill the ground became muddy. He reined her back down to a walk, the curb bit in her mouth tilting to work her palate; an utterly compelling sensation for any ponygirl. The man driving her used this power with a light and knowing hand, staying clear of the point of distress. Too often Mirage had suffered the opposite in her past life. Atrocities such as spiked spade bits, barbed wire bridles and metal-tipped whips from which she had been rescued a mere six months ago.

They left the path in favour for an eastbound trail that, after less than a kilometre, led them out of the woods again and back into the open rural countryside. His pony's good spirits had long since rubbed off on him, and with the trail gradually broadening into a narrow road the handler released Mirage into a full gallop. Water sprayed as hooves stomped into puddles, the sulky's thin wheels whooshed through the morning air. The ponygirl held the dizzy speed, visibly being exercised, but without tiring out. Only at the weathered cottage he gently slowed her down to a halt. Near one askew wall a few strokes on the handle of a cast iron hand pump spilled fresh water into a stone trough.

More aware of her tail than ever Mirage gracefully half knelt, half bent over, with the cart providing a welcome counterweight. She struggled drinking effectively, bitted as she was, as she could neither lap nor suck the liquid up properly. Her handler granted her enough time to hydrate without bloating herself, and to come down from her runner's high. Ponygirls were vulnerable in this state, both physically and mentally. Floating in the tension between excitement, exhaustion and euphoria.

They took the crossing road due south, back to the stud through the wavy landscape. Much to her delight her handler made Mirage canter again. The demanding gait was her showpiece, and she felt bad that she had got sloppy with it last week. No corrective sting of the whip had brought that shortcoming home more sharply than having the absence of reward inflicted upon her. This week she had been an exceptionally good pony. Never missed a high step. Never faked exhaustion. Never tried to evade bit action. Bad ponies got the whip. Good ponies, however, ...

A fine sheen of sweat was covering every square centimetre of her skin despite the still low sun. From her chin all the way down to her navel it was diluted by saliva. Her handler unhitched Mirage in front of the barn for a first rough cleaning. The ponygirl was champing at her bit like an untamed filly, inducing even more drooling. With a soft towel he wiped her face and front off. He switched to a coarse brush and took a step to the side. Stabilising her with his left shoulder he lifted her left leg up behind her to clean the hoof. Almost immediately Mirage leant into him, and soon began rubbing her flank against his body. He gave her a playful slap with the rein ends.

"Knock it off."

Mirage tossed her head, but behaved for the moment.

Only with her other hoof deemed sufficiently pre-cleaned as well she was hand walked into the tacking area. The handler turned his back to her to hang up his jacket at a rack full of harnesses. Neither was this piece of clothing very thick nor the room especially warm, but tending to the garment commenced a teasing game. Therefore he also pretended not to hear the careful clonks of horse shoes on the brick floor, the sweet chime of bells. As he was keeping himself busy with a particularly inconspicuous button he felt the warm breath of his ponygirl against the nape of his neck. A moment later it was accompanied by an equally warm touch as Mirage nudged him with her nose. He turned around to find himself looking into pleading doe eyes framed by the straps of her pro bridle.

"I could have sworn that I left you over there."

The handler seized her reins and manoeuvred her back into the centre of the well-stocked room. He threw the reins over her shoulders and kept them in his left hand as he stepped behind her. His right hand unbuckled her crotch strap and freed her opulent tail from it, an action met with a drawn-out moan from the ponygirl. The plug had clearly done its trick - the belt was soaked.

"You didn't think I forgot what day is today, did you?"

His hand slid between her legs from behind, feeling through her slickness. Mirage bucked in arousal, but her handler was quick with his rein hand. He took the slag out, thus impeding any mischief. Intentionally he had left the rest of her equipment in place. It was imperative that she climax under tack. Partly entering, the fingers of his right hand fell into a repetitive motion. Another moan escaped past the pivoted bit, filled with increasing urgency. The pony picked up the rhythm with her hips, moving them in sync with his ministration. Varying neither speed nor depth nor pressure, the handler angled his wrist so the ball of his thumb now pushed against the base of her tail plug with every forward stroke.

The added anal stimulus caused Mirage to grind in earnest. One iteration, another, a violent third, and amidst the fourth she froze in an almost painful contortion. Her pent-up need overwhelmed the ponygirl, who neither could nor wanted to summon up any resistance. Close behind her the handler made sure to keep the reins tight to control her during her sexual discharge. The massive anovaginal orgasm drained her hard and fast to the point of both her knees buckling away under her. Just in time he grabbed her harness to prevent her from sinking to the ground. With no hand on her reins anymore, Mirage's head lolled this way and that before she could muster any form of muscle tension. Keeping his firm hold on the recovering filly, her handler steadied her for several minutes. When he was positive that she had regained full use of her senses, he praised her with a soothing voice.

"Good pony...!"

~The End~