Breeding the Pony Girl

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

(This tale is inspired by the work of Mr.Smith27 as well as the novels of Jennifer Jane Pope. Thanks to Mr.Smith for his review of the draft.)

(

Mary Jacobs' viewpoint

)

My husband Bill parked the ranch's pickup truck, towing a horse trailer, near the edge of the parking lot for the Longhorn Slave Market. On Saturday afternoon, the lot was full but many people appeared to be leaving, some of them towing naked and restrained young women who had probably just finished their slave grading and were looking forward to regaining their freedom.

Bill looked at Lois and me, and quietly suggested that the two of us "get ready" in the back of the trailer, after which he would "be along to collect you." Four minutes later, Lois, a beautiful 29-year-old with auburn hair, was completely naked except for a slave collar (already connected to a leash) and a pair of flip-flops. Her eyes were shining with a mixture of excitement and apprehension as she looked at me, similarly unclothed, although at the age of 46 I didn't look nearly as sexy as she did; the best I can say for myself is that I was well preserved: a pleasant face, a fit body, and breasts that sagged only slightly.

"Remember," I cautioned her. "Talk softly and obey; don't make a scene that will bring attention to us."

Just then, Bill dropped the ramp on the back of the trailer, exposing our nudity to view from the outside, and walked up next to us. He knew better than to stare at Lois, instead using zip-ties to restrain our wrists behind our backs. Having done that, standing between us he suddenly placed a cupped hand on each of our rear ends, and we both shied away from the unexpected groping.

"Oh, come on, sluts. You can expect a lot more than just a hand on your ass when you get inside." He didn't persist in his fondling, however. He used his left hand to retrieve a clipboard full of papers and an ominous cloth bag, from which the two-foot neck of a branding iron protruded. I noticed Lois looking at the bag, and wondered if she were as frightened as I. No time to think about that now: Bill gathered both of our leashes in his right hand and led us, willy-nilly, down the ramp into full public view and towards the sign that indicated the main entrance to the market. How the hell did I talk myself into this?

*****

I knew the answer to that, of course. It all began because Lois, the divorced owner of the Spinning Wheel Pony Ranch, developed a bad case of the hots for her own property, a champion pony boy stallion appropriately called "Stud." She confessed to me, her stable manager, that she was obsessed with the idea of pretending to be a pony girl so that Stud would use his oversized cock on her. I had helped Lois with this masquerade, which went fine until an emergency forced me to leave her, bent and tied on a mounting frame, while Stud was in the midst of fulfilling her fantasy. That would have been great for her, except that while I was gone, Stud took advantage of the opportunity to extract the horse-tail plug from Lois' rear entrance and thoroughly butt-fuck her. Then, once the assigned ranch hand collected Stud and led him off to a shower, another ranch hand, Bob Grant, had come upon Lois (aka Pony Girl Ginger) still tied to the frame. Bound and unable to reveal her identity, Ginger had no choice but to let Bob shaft her as well.

All's well that ends well. I rescued Lois without--as far as we knew--anyone identifying Ginger as the proud and reserved ranch owner. She obviously enjoyed the fucking (and I think playing submissive, although she wouldn't admit that part.) Lois was visibly more relaxed and happy for the next several weeks. So, of course, because I liked her I suggested various ways to reprise her role as a horny pony girl. The third time I brought the subject up, the conversation went something like this:

"Oh, right," retorted Lois, sarcastically. "I'll admit I had fun, but the risk of discovery is too great. If nothing else, most of our ponies are branded, in case you've forgotten."

I tried to encourage her. "So, we get you branded. No big deal."

"It is a big deal," she replied. "Quite apart from the pain of getting my butt burned, I can't very well walk up to the ranch smith, drop my panties, and ask him to use an iron on me."

I sensed that she really wanted to play pony again, for all her protests, and I thought she needed a chance for happiness, so I persisted. "I'll admit that branding must hurt, but you're a woman. We're built for pain, and it can't be any worse than childbirth. As for where you get branded, there are places that can be discreet. I know some people down at the Longhorn in Houston--I'm sure I can arrange to have it done without publicizing your identity. Again, not a big deal."

"OK," Lois replied, caught between sexual frustration and impatience at my nonchalant attitude. "I can tell that you're determined to get me branded, and you think it's not a big deal. So, I dare you to put your ass where your mouth is. If I have to go to the Longhorn, so do you, and whatever I have to do, you do also. If I'm naked and collared, so are you. If I get fondled by slave wranglers, so do you. And if I get the spinning wheel brand on my rear end, so do you. As you said, it can't be worse than childbirth, right?"

Oops. Trying to be supportive of my boss, I had gone too far. We had a long discussion of reasons why I couldn't do it, but she was stubborn. I thought I had her when I said that, if I were playing slave along with her, we'd have to let someone else into her secret. She had an answer to that one, however--I would have to tell my husband, the head cook of the ranch, why I was going to Houston overnight, so why not make him the ticket holder? (When you're being slave graded or kennelled in a slave market, the ticket holder is your temporary owner, the only one who can spring you from their custody.) Me and my big mouth.

*****

(

Telephone conversation, the next day

.)

"Mary Jacobs."

"Mary, this is Jesse Foster at the Longhorn, returning your call."

"Thanks for getting back to me so quickly; I'm sorry to take up your time, but I need your help with a rather delicate situation."

"No problem," came his calm voice with a slight southern accent. "Anything legal we can do for a good customer like the Spinning Wheel, we'll be glad to."

"Well, I might as well just come out with it. There are two free women who want to get branded, very discretely. I was hoping you could kennel them, brand them, and keep them overnight for medical observation."

Jesse replied in the same kind of "no big deal" tone I had used talking with Lois. "Free women getting branded is becoming more and more common, and most of them want to keep it quiet, just like you. In fact, one of my female wranglers is even talking about getting herself marked for her husband, because she signed a FINO contract with him. We need a court order to use the circle star criminal brand, but other than that, we have all the common brands or you can provide your own."

Mary: "Great; we'll bring along the Spinning Wheel branding head we use."

Jesse: "But, you said you wanted to be discrete, and I guess that's why you want these women kennelled. Whenever we kennel someone, and especially when a branding is involved, we need to have a legal release for liability reasons. Are these ladies going to give power of attorney to whoever acts as their ticket holder?"

Mary's voice was troubled. "Ummm, isn't it kind of risky to sign a power of attorney at a slave market?"

Jesse tried to dispel her concern. "If you're talking about an unlimited power, where the attorney-in-fact has the right to sell the person, I agree wholeheartedly. The Longhorn is in the business of selling slaves, and if someone walks in with unlimited power of attorney over another person, it's SOP to convince the owner to sell. But in your case, I'm talking about a very limited power that specifically does NOT authorize sale but gives the attorney-in-fact a temporary power over the person in question, including power to physically alter that person. I'd be glad to e-mail you a few different versions."

Mary: "That would be great. Now, how do you treat individuals that are kennelled with you?"

Jesse again tried to sound very matter of fact about a delicate matter. "As a minimum, the same rules that apply for free people being slave graded: the individual must arrive already naked, collared, and with wrists bound, and that individual has to obey all instructions and expect to be handled by the wranglers. If you want to specify no sexual favors, we can put a pink-colored tag on the collar; my people will respect that limitation, but if you're worried about being anonymous, a tag like that will make everyone look twice and try to identify the person, so I don't recommend it."

Mary: "Basically, then, any wrangler can demand oral services, just like our hands do at the ranch?"

Jesse sounded relieved. "I'm glad you understand that; I feel uncomfortable discussing such things with a lady. I don't let my people do anything beyond fondling and oral sex unless the customer specifically authorizes more. Since we're talking about women who want to be branded, though, I have to ask: are these ladies looking for a . . . more authentic experience, as if they were really slaves? Sorry to put it that way, but some people have decided that normal slave grading rules are too tame, and they want at least the risk of something more happening to them while they're in our custody. Not injury, of course, other than the branding itself, but some free people want to get used as if they were really enslaved."

Mary: "Well, neither of these women is an 18-year-old horny kid. To be honest, I suspect that the younger of the two--she's 29 and I think she was graded Choice plus when she was younger--might really enjoy being a full-service slut for your staff, but the older one . . . she's 46, so I doubt anyone would be interested even if she wanted it, which she doesn't."

Jesse: "One last question, which you don't have to answer but I wish you would. Back when I first started here, we had an incident where a young woman drugged her sister and tried to sell her into slavery using a valid power of attorney meant for another purpose. Because of that, I always ask, whenever free people are in our custody, what their names are so that I can put an electronic flag on those files, just in case everything else fails and somebody tries to sell them. Would you mind telling me who these two people are?"

Mary, suddenly sheepish and sighing in resignation. "You'll find out anyway when we arrive, so I'll tell you, but PLEASE keep this close-hold: it's my boss, Lois Spalding, and me."

After a pause, Jesse replied, "Oh. . . I gotta say, you surprised me."

Mary responded, "It's a long story, but as you can understand we don't want to draw attention to ourselves. That's why we're asking you to do it--we couldn't do it on the ranch."

Jesse: "You sure you want a permanent brand and the authentic experience?"

Mary replied. "No, I'm not, but Lois will insist on both of us getting exactly the same treatment. Besides, I'm so old it's probably safe for me to be in your custody--no one's likely to look twice."

Jesse: "I wouldn't be too sure; a lot of my young guys admire well--do you know what MILF means?"

Mary, laughing. "Not helping, Jesse! Yeah, I know about MILFs, but I doubt it applies in my case."

*****

The next day, I showed the powers of attorney to Lois and explained about the "authentic" clause, which in effect pimped the signer out to the slave wranglers. As I expected, she had no problem with that except that she demanded my power of attorney be phrased exactly the same way as hers. Crap. At my suggestion, she and I practiced auction block moves, aka Slave Yoga, in private, preparing to perform at the Longhorn. Lord, it had been 25 years since I had to do those moves, and my bones creaked. I have to admit, though, that posing like that while repeating suggestive slave mantras got me a little excited, and Lois was really turned on but again wouldn't admit it. The last time we practiced, I insisted that we do it slave naked; my boss just exuded sex appeal, so I had to be careful she didn't catch me staring at her.

After that, I still had to explain this crazy situation to my husband; he had already suspected something because my sex drive had increased after practicing with Lois. Bill grinned and said that it would cost me--when we got back from the Longhorn, he wanted to play with his personal branded pony girl. I told him I would be in too much pain to do that, so he suggested we practice BEFORE the big day. I have to admit it was kind of fun to play master and pony girl, even at our ages. My sex drive was ramping up as I secretly looked forward to being a kennelled slut; I only hoped the wranglers weren't so attracted to my sexpot boss that they ignored me!

(

Lois Spalding's perspective

)

If you've read the previous sections of my story, you may have concluded that I was the horniest, most submissive slut in the Western World. Ninety percent of the time, that wasn't true. Most of my employees were male, and the nature of our business was soaked in testosterone, but I had no desire to make love with any of those guys, even though I respected and liked most of them as people. However, for several months before this point in my story, I'd become fascinated--hell, obsessed--with the idea of being rendered helpless like any of my pony girls and thoroughly used by strong males like my stallion, Stud. Mary had helped me bring that wet dream to life, and although some things had gone wrong the resulting sex had been so fantastic that I thought often about repeating the experiment.

I recognized that the whole idea was foolhardy, and in fact the danger of being exposed--or perhaps actually enslaved--fed my sexual excitement. Still, the risk seemed too great, so when Mary tried to nudge me into another round of playing pony girl, she was offering me something that seemed like both candy and poison. That's why I insisted that she get branded along with me--either she would back off on the whole idea, or she would help me do it while gaining a real sense of the worry and risk involved. I wanted her to have some "skin in the game." Literally.

Some people might ask why I didn't get a temporary brand, the kind that only marks the epidermis so that it fades away after 8 to 12 months. I could answer that asking for such a brand would draw attention to the fact that I wasn't really a slave, and that would be true. Mary and I planned that, if the truth ever got out, we would just say it was a private dare to prove how dedicated we were to the Spinning Wheel Ranch. Deep down, though, I suspect that this was another manifestation of my fascination with playing pony girl. My mind told me being branded was always risky, because it might help an unscrupulous person claim that I wanted to be enslaved. Yet, my libido told me it was one more step towards making the pony girl fantasy more complete, more real. I know it doesn't make sense, but at that moment a brand became the next goal, plus going to the Longhorn would be another opportunity for submissive sex.

Being led across the parking lot that day, I had many second thoughts, now that it was too late to turn back. On the plus side, I was hoping that some hunky slave wrangler would ring my chimes a few times, just as when I had played pony girl. On the debit side of the ledger, I felt guilty for dragging Mary into this, and dreaded the pain of branding. At the moment, though, I was getting turned on because my sensations were so similar to those I'd had when I had played Pony Girl Ginger--not only naked in public, but with absolutely no control over what happened to me. I trusted Bill Jacobs, and Jesse Foster was almost an oxymoron as an ethical slave merchant. Still, when you're used to controlling everything around you, suddenly becoming a naked slut at everyone's mercy is a shock--at once terrifying and arousing. And this time I didn't even have a mask and pony tack to conceal my identity. I just had to hope that no one would recognize me as--what was it Mary said the staff called me? Oh, yeah, the ice princess ranch owner. Which just reinforced the necessity of my being cooperative and submissive, much as that grated on me.

My determination to be a docile slave got put to the test before I even reached the front door of the slave market. As Mary and I followed Bill across the parking lot, a tall, older gentleman was walking the opposite way and stopped to talk to our ticket holder.

"You've got some classic slave pussy on a leash, friend. Are you planning to sell them?" He asked, a wide grin on his face.

Before even replying, Bill snapped "Present!" at his two charges. Ordinarily, that would mean interlocking our hands behind our heads while standing with our feet apart, offering a full-frontal view, but since our hands were still bound behind us, Mary and I just spread our legs and froze in place, like naked hunting dogs with our nipples indicating the quarry.

"Sorry, sir; got to keep the sluts under control," Bill apologized to the stranger. "In answer to your question, I'm not planning to sell today, just need to get the photos in their Slave Registry files updated. For the moment, this is my bed-warmer [I was startled when he grasped my right boob firmly, but I tried not to show surprise or pull away] and my old maid-of-all-work." He slapped his wife's rear end briskly, making me wonder whether the slap or the word "old" would be harder for her to handle.] He pursued his explanation: "Older, used slaves like these aren't usually worth much. So, sometimes the best thing is to sell or trade such cunts online rather than paying a big commission to the market, but to deal online I need to get their files up to date. I thought maybe, down the line, I would trade them in for a couple of younger, juicier whores. I appreciate your interest, though--would you care to check them out?"

"Don't mind if I do," replied the stranger. With no further warning, I suddenly felt one of his hands squeezing my left breast HARD, while he thrust two fingers upwards, deep between my labia. I tried my best not to flinch at this intimate invasion, and his fingers came out of my cunt very damp.

"This little bitch is nice and hot--got a lot of fucks left in her, I imagine." He let go of my boob and suddenly pushed that hand up into Mary's innards in the same way he had explored me. Now I was feeling REALLY guilty that I had involved her like this when she had no interest in my slave games, but then the guy's fingers came out wet with HER juices, as well! "Even the old lady seems to still have an interest in serving, which is a good thing, although I imagine with a cute younger slave like Red, here, you only use the old one for blow jobs."

Bill grinned, "Yes, the old girl still has some life left in her. Kneel, slut! Mouth! Would you care for a sample suck?" To preserve our cover, my stable manager dropped to her widespread knees, practically skinning them on the asphalt, and then opened her mouth and licked her lips. Lord, I hated to see her so casually debased, right out in the parking lot with dozens of people around! And, to be honest,

I

wanted to be the one to swallow his load in the parking lot.

Fortunately, though, the stranger declined. "Much as I'd like to take you up on the offer, friend, I've already had three sluts service me today, and I'm late for lunch with my mother. Here's my card, though--if you think about selling these two, give me a call, will you?"