Breeding the Pony Girl

Breeding the Pony Girl, Pt. 04

(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.)

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Previously

: Lois Spalding, the divorced owner of the Spinning Wheel Ranch, became obsessed about masquerading as one of her pony girls so that her prized pony boy stallion, Stud, could mount her with his oversized equipment. Lois' stable manager and confidante, Mary Jacobs, helped the 29-year-old dress up as Pony Girl Ginger, allowing Stud to shaft her thoroughly fore and aft. Convinced that such role playing would make her boss happy, Mary later suggested kennelling Lois at the Longhorn Slave Market so that she could be branded--an essential disguise for a pretend pony girl--without her ranch staff knowing about it. Torn between the temptation and the risks involved, Lois finally demanded of Mary that she "put your ass where your mouth is." Reluctantly, Mary arranged to have her husband Bill check BOTH of them in at the Longhorn one Saturday afternoon. The Operations Manager of the slave market, Jesse Foster, and the slave handler/wrangler who accepted custody of the women, Florence Jones, both knew their actual identities. Once stripped, cuffed, and collared, however, Mary and Lois were indistinguishable from other slaves in the Longhorn inventory; their designated wranglers casually ordered the women to provide blowjobs while the men updated their records in the National Slave Registry. Looking at those records probably told the wranglers the identities of the two temporary sluts, but both men were too discrete to say anything. Or maybe they just enjoyed treating free women as slaves.)

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Mary Jacobs' Perspective

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With their hands goosing our butts, Masters Dave and Josh walked us to the next ordeal we had to encounter--although I imagine Lois thought of it as the next thrill! We were turned over to two pairs of rainsuit-covered wranglers at the showers, aka "Slut Wash." One of the four slave-wash experts bore a close resemblance to Florence, the huge woman who had signed us into the Longhorn (I later learned that she was Florence's sister, Maureen.) Under her direction, Lois and I were quickly strung up, facing each other across the huge wash bay, in the strappado position--ankles restrained so wide apart it was difficult to stand, hands cuffed behind the back and pulled upward by a rope, forcing us to bend over with our torsos parallel to the floor to avoid dislocating our shoulders, leaving our breasts dangling downward. Then the wash crew thoroughly groped and fondled us under the pretext that we needed to be de-loused and washed down.

Except for Maureen, the slut wash wranglers were very youthful-looking young men. You had to be 18 years of age to even enter a slave market, but urban legend had it that young men of that age would work at places like the Longhorn, Big D, and HCI for minimum wage, just to have the opportunity to play with the naked female slaves sent to the showers. The guy working me over certainly took his time grabbing and fondling my breasts, buttocks, clit, and cunt. He even made some remark to the effect that I was "pretty hot for an old slut"--didn't know whether to be flattered or insulted, but it didn't matter anyway as he took whatever pleasure he could out of toying with the "old slut." I have to confess that some of his groping turned me on--how often does a 40-something woman get sexual attention from a teenager without any feeling that she was doing something wrong? I felt humiliated but not responsible for what he did to me. I knew that Lois was probably on fire after being "forced" to suck that massive wrangler's cock. Now, watching my boss' face I could tell she was really getting off on being the ultimate "carwash cutie" for two guys to probe and arouse. Her nipples were hard (again) and she was wriggling like a cat in heat. Even the sudden injection of warm, medium-pressure water up our colons seemed to thrill her, and again for me it felt a lot more sensual--but no less demeaning--than I had expected.

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Lois Spalding's perspective

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I thought I was mentally prepared for the Slut Wash, but instead it showed me new dimensions of my own weird mind. Here were these two 18-year-old kids, whom normally I would either ignore or verbally shred if they dared to even look at me. Instead, they were free to play with me in any way they wanted--I imagine their (female) boss might have told them to stop wasting time if they had actually screwed me, but short of that, they had total run of my body. They were my lords and masters, and I was simply a piece of slave meat hung up for their enjoyment. It was infuriating, humiliating . . . and sexy as hell. Even those insensitive louts noticed that my nipples were erect and I was breathing hard--they quite rightly described me as "born to the collar" and "a skanky little bitch who only wants to get her cunt stuffed with our cocks." Once I got my clothes back on and this collar off, I would avoid this place like a torture chamber, and resume my contemptuous attitude towards young male morons (if that isn't a redundancy to begin with). Yet somewhere in the back of my mind I would be dreaming of being the sex toy of two pimply-faced guys who treated me like the slut that, at least once in a while, I wanted to be.

I was thrilled when they threatened to butt-fuck me and acted out their fantasy by thrusting a lubricated hose nozzle up my anus. (Nothing they were likely to put there could be much bigger than the cock on my prize stallion, Stud, anyway.) It was not as much fun to hold in that water while we were frog-marched over to sit on toilets, in full view of each other and the wranglers, and then void ourselves. Twice! The complete lack of privacy, not to mention loss of control over my bodily functions, in front of these fools was both humiliating and thrilling.

After the second trip to the commodes, blasts of warm air went far towards drying us off, and the boys (I have to think of them like that, even though they were 18 or older) even used combs to straighten out our damp hair. I'd often heard it before, but this time I felt the impact of the old saying that slaves must be thankful for small favors.

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Mary Jacob's perspective

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After that, the two body-builder wranglers resumed control and took us off to "dinner"--if you can call it that. Jesse Foster had promised the "authenticity" of being treated like a slave while we were kennelled. I had assumed that he meant that we were subject to sexual use, and so far I had been required to suck off one guy and be felt up and enema'd by another, each of them young enough to be my son (Oh, lord, I thought--what if Bobby ever saw me like this???) Apparently, though, "authenticity" also meant eating like a slave--kneeling on concrete, hands still cuffed behind our backs, faces bent low to swallow tasteless slave chow out of metal dog bowls. I could certainly empathize with the pony girls whom we kept restrained for days on end, although even then we usually fed them vegetable stews rather than slave chow--you can't pull a cart living on that stuff (If you'll pardon the blasphemy, woman cannot live on slave chow alone.) Lapping water from a bowl, just like the "bitch" I'd been called all afternoon, was almost as demeaning as eating slave chow.

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Lois Spalding's perspective

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The expression on Mary's face after her wrangler dripped cum on it, and again while she was being fondled by a teenager in the Slut Wash, told me that she was getting at least some enjoyment out of our kennelling, so for a moment my regret at insisting that she accompany me had abated. Still, when she lifted her face out a dog bowl, I felt guilty again. I noticed that she had two stray pieces of Slave Chow stuck on her cheek--in a futile gesture of apology, I leaned over and removed those pieces with my tongue.

Unfortunately, her wrangler, Josh, mis-interpreted (perhaps deliberately?) my gesture as "lesbian action," so he insisted that we move closer together and French kiss. Damn, I thought, I just made things worse for my partner rather than better. I know I'm a kinky sex maniac, but my instincts are heterosexual. Once again, though, as temporary slaves we had to obey instructions or suffer the (literally) shocking consequences. With our breasts rubbing against each other, we kissed very gently then timidly opened up to allow our tongues to touch. I tried with my eyes to apologize to Mary, and she seemed to be saying it was all right. At first, the intimacy and sensations of rubbing and kissing her were comforting, but not particularly erotic. However, I quickly realized that being ordered by a dominant male to kiss her put a different complexion on the matter (a deeply blushing complexion, come to think of it!) Being ORDERED to kiss another woman somehow cancelled the social taboos against lesbian sex--after all, slaves have no freedom to refuse what in free people would be considered homosexual actions. Mary's lips were much softer than a man, and there was no irritating stubble on her cheeks. As we continued to press together, she became more aggressive. I realized with a start that, for at least the fourth time that day, my nipples were stiff as erasers and my clit felt the same.

Then Josh and Dave released our wrist cuffs and told us to "69." I could tell that Mary was just as surprised as I by the idea, so I decided to dive in, hoping to satisfy our masters and give her a little pleasure. I'd never licked a woman down there before, and the memory of that moment still makes me blush. I just tried to do what I remembered some guys doing to me, and she seemed to enjoy it. Mary's "slave snatch" got wetter as I tongued her, and her first tentative licks on my pussy became more and more invasive. Maybe it was just because I'd never had my face in a cunt before, but the aroma of arousal was quite strong. I guess both of us had hidden bisexual tendencies.

Josh seemed satisfied with our efforts; I think he was just pushing our buttons. When we were done, he and Dave marched us to the toilets and actually freed our hands to use the commodes and rinse our faces. They even gave us sample-sized bottles of mouthwash--another example of slaves learning to appreciate small favors.

After that brief respite, though, it was back into cuffs and off to what I was really dreading, the branding room. I could feel and even smell the heat before we passed through the door, a door decorated with a 9-inch wide burned-in imprint of the Longhorn logo: An outline bull's head shaped like an isosceles triangle with two long, hooked horns sticked out of the sides. Working with slaves for my adult life, I had seen several women branded in the exact same pattern, usually at an angle to fit the whole thing onto one buttock. For the first time, the reality of what those slaves had experienced struck home.

Inside, a gas-fueled, fan-driven forge was flooding the room with heat, noise, and light. There were two complicated frames of gleaming metal, clearly intended to restrain slaves for branding. And two grinning men dressed as wranglers but with leather aprons; one was in his 40s with a full beard, the other a brown-haired guy in his late 20s or maybe early 30s.

I was surprised when Mary and I were instructed to lie FACE UP on these frames. The four men quickly strapped down all four of my limbs, belly, chest, and neck. I ended up flat on my back, completely spread-eagled and exposed; looking to my left, I saw Mary in a similar position. Then the penny dropped as to why we were face up--oh, yeah, her damn husband signed us up for nipple-piercing, too. If he were here right now I'd have them give him a Prince Albert!

*****

For a minute, everyone stood around, waiting for some unknown next step. Then a lab-coated slave veterinarian hurried in--a pretty, blond woman who appeared to be in her mid-30s. "Dr. Janice Oliver" the nametag said.

"Sorry I'm late," she seemed to be apologizing to us rather than the four guys--as if we might leave if she took too long to get to the room! Then she efficiently took our blood pressure, temperature, and other vital signs. She remarked that "your heart rates are elevated: they should be somewhere between 65 and 69 at your age, but instead you're both around 74. But, that's understandable given your stress levels." Then the vet produced two rather thick butt plugs and explained that each contained a dose of oxycodone and a little Valium, to be administered rectally for rapid absorption in that area. I'm ashamed to say that I got another sexual thrill, a small one, when she firmly worked one of those plugs up my Khyber Pass. "This won't knock you out but should relax you now and reduce the residual pain after your branding. I'll see you in the morning to check on the wound sites and give you more oxycodone before you leave. The care instructions given to your owners when they pick you up will warn them against giving you too much oxy; you've got enough troubles as slaves without becoming addicted." OK, I thought, in medical terms what was being done to our bodies would create "wounds," but it was a little sickening to hear her refer to them in that manner.

After wishing us good luck, Dr. Oliver gave the four men a final warning--"Remember, guys, that older tissue doesn't stretch as easily as 18-year-old cuties--be gentle with these two, please; don't damage the merchandise." (In the back of my mind, I recalled Mary using that merchandise line once when she thought I was whipping a stallion too hard. Only now WE were the slave merchandise! What goes around . . .) Then the vet departed, probably to go home at the end of her shift. As soon as the door closed behind her, the older, bearded guy who appeared to be the head smith/brander took charge.

"The vet has given you the standard medication for these procedures, but we have another procedure that we use to help slaves relax. We sometimes lack the time for this when we brand newly-auctioned slaves on a busy day, but this evening we're in no hurry." Given the way this place seemed to operate, I wasn't really surprised when, without any ceremony, he walked between my widespread thighs, pushed his apron to one side, unzipped his jeans, and began licking and fondling my clit. After less than two minutes of oral stimulation, coming on top of Mary's half-hearted efforts, I felt myself getting very warm and wet down there; the next sensation was of a fair-sized penis pressing into me. He was balls-deep after three thrusts, and then he began rhythmically pumping me while tweaking my nipples and massaging my boobs as if they were two handfuls of mashed potatoes.

Overwhelmed by sensations, I felt my body quickly climbing towards a climax. Abruptly, the support on my neck dropped down, and I found myself looking, upside down, at Dave, the handsome Black wrangler who had shepherded me all afternoon. "Open up, slut," he remarked, calmly, "you have permission to cum as often as you like, but don't you dare bite down when you do it."

"Yes, Master," I grinned, and did my best to welcome his cock. With my neck stretched like that, aligned with my mouth and his dick, I could handle him with less difficulty than when I had crouched under his desk, although a prick that size would always be a challenge to deep throat. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mary in the same "compromised" position, spread-eagled on a restraining frame with the younger smith slamming into her cunt while Josh, the Nordic god wrangler who had controlled her all afternoon, was again making her gag on his shaft.

The head smith, whose name I never learned, remarked in a loud, appreciative voice, "Damn, this is some fine slave pussy--Red, here, must be a 500 dollar-a-trick pleasure whore." I would have felt flattered, except that he seemed to be giving me at least as much enjoyment as I could provide him. Too bad real pleasure slaves don't get such well-endowed, considerate Johns so they got that much fun out of their work!

His younger partner, fully sheathed in Mary, replied "You ought to try this one. For an older gal, she's a pretty fair fuck. Wish I'd had a chance to do her ten years ago, when she would have been at her peak. I don't know what you've got over there--have to try her out later--but this little beauty is another prime piece of ass." I hoped that Mary was having half as much fun as I was; at least they were praising her performance rather than jeering at her aging body.

Just above my head, I heard Dave's low, rumbling voice, "Well, don't wear the cunts out. Remember the deal--we all get to use them at both ends."

For the next half an hour or so, I was lost in the euphoria of a gangbang with four men who really knew how to USE a woman. I know, I know, that's a chauvinistic thought to admit, but come on--four guys, three of them younger than me and all four having considerable stamina, giving me that much sustained pleasure? They weren't just using us, but seemed genuinely concerned that we share their fun. In a brief window of lucidity, I recognized that a large part of the thrill to me was being completely under the control of four men whom I had never met before and would (I hoped) never meet again--at least, not when they could identify me! I only prayed that poor Mary was getting some satisfaction out of this experience, which was nowhere near her usual staid existence.

Time seemed to stand still in my slave haze, and towards the end of the mini-orgy I was probably floating from whatever Doctor Janice had put up my butt. I remember feeling thankful that she had administered the dose in that manner, since apparently the presence of medication in the plug meant that these guys would not try to enter my back door--and with cocks as large as Dave's, anal sex could have been challenging, to say the least. That butt plug also ensured that whichever man was fucking my cunt felt bigger and tighter as a result. Periodically, I tried to contract my muscles around whoever was inside me and got a grateful groan, not to mention harder usage, in return.

Because I lost track of time, I really don't know who did what to me when at which end. Periodically, I heard someone yell "switch" and the four guys played musical twats and pieholes, or whatever it was. I think they stopped and put on fresh condoms before inserting themselves between a different pair of slave thighs, but I'm not certain how they kept the whole schedule flowing. Maybe they were following a plan for scheduled tire rotations; all I know if that it all felt different shades of good to excellent.

At one point, I became aware that Dave's huge black shaft was no longer in my mouth; bending my head to see around whichever genitalia was tickling my tonsils at that moment, I think I caught sight of Dave eagerly sucking on one of my breasts while tweaking the other. Another time, it felt as if someone was tonguing me thoroughly while rubbing sandpaper against my thighs--must have been the head smith, back for sloppy seconds, with his beard chaffing me. Mmmm. I felt like the ultimate whore, eager for all the dominant cock I could get. Tomorrow, I suspected that I would be deeply ashamed of this slutty attitude (and I was), but for the moment it felt grand.

*****

I lost count of how many orgasms I had; I began to realize that I was tired and dehydrated. Then a rapid series of events jarred me. First, whoever was pounding my cunt pulled out and was not replaced. A moment later, I felt someone rubbing something cold on my nipples, followed by a spray that made them even colder. Just as I realized what was going on, my mouth also went empty, suddenly. Seconds later, there was a sharp, painful jab through my left tit, followed perhaps 20 seconds later by the same sensation on the other side. My sexual high collapsed like a pricked balloon and I cried out, realizing that they had snuck in the nipple piercings before I could even feel apprehensive about the matter.