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/sexual contact with slaves. This is fiction; no one should ever be deprived of free will, still less used sexually, without his or her uncoerced permission.)

(

Mary Jacobs' viewpoint

)

Here we go again. Several months before these events, my boss, Lois Spalding, and I had faced each other inside one of the horse trailers belonging to Lois' Spinning Wheel Pony Ranch. At that time, we had just arrived at the Longhorn Slave Market, and we were undressing before we voluntarily accepted slave rules to be kennelled at the market. During that strange overnight stay, we both got thoroughly fucked before the ranch's brand was seared into our buttocks. This time, the trailer was parked at a rest area off Interstate 10. And this time, unlike our trip to the Longhorn, my clothes were staying on while I tried not to gloat as I watched Lois again strip slave naked.

Lois was clearly excited about her "field trip" as a pretend slave, but her nervousness found expression in hesitation and whining. "I can't believe I let you talk me into this--three days in pony harness, without even a guarantee that I'll get laid in the process."

"A cute filly like you in a ranch full of horny cowboys?" I scoffed in a friendly manner, trying to reassure her. "Nonsense. What's more likely to happen is that you spend the entire three days getting thoroughly stuffed with cock and won't get any real training out of this expensive trip. In that case, as your stable manager, I would recommend that you NOT deduct the $1500 fee as a business expense for training ponies. Knowing you, it'll be more like a vacation. At the very least, I'm sure every hand who trains you will unload into your mouth, just to get to know you."

If this sounds confusing, a bit of background. The Spinning Wheel was a highly profitable business that trained some of the top human ponies in Texas for both harness (sulky or buggy) racing and sexual service. Ordinarily, when we acquired a new pony girl (or, infrequently a pony boy) that showed promise as a racer, we would train her or him for a few weeks, just to break the slave in and ensure obedience. After that, we routinely boarded the new slave meat out to the Jamison Ranch, which specialized in training new recruits to trot (with upper legs reaching the horizontal as they high step) like champion ponies. It was just more efficient to let the Jamison staff pound the basics into new fillies before we began our own advanced training. Of course, it was an open secret that the Jamison Ranch, like most of the other pony spreads (pun intended) in Texas, also ensured that a new filly got something ELSE pounded into her openings. So long as you didn't have sex with a pony just before a race, the experience of orally servicing free people and regularly accepting cock (or strap-ons) into their bodies seemed to make pony girls happier and more eager to run.

What does this training have to do with Lois stripping in a horse trailer? She had developed a fascination for sexual domination, pretending to be a pony girl slave for the thrill (to her) of being thoroughly mastered and laid. So far, she had gotten herself reamed (front and back) by her pony boy stallion Stud, gang-banged (along with me, I must admit--actually kind of fun!) by four slave wranglers while she was strapped into a rigid frame waiting to be branded, driven around her own ranch in full harness (with reins connected to both mouth bit and nipple rings), and most recently yielding all three holes to an inspector from the State Department of Agriculture. That inspector insisted that he had to tie her down and interview her every 3 months to make sure that, as a free woman, she was "voluntarily acting as a slave." Of course, his idea of ensuring that she was a "free actor" was to fondle her until she begged him to screw her in any opening he chose! Nice work for a guy, if you can get it.

These experiences had only whetted Lois' appetite for playing sex slave, hence my plan to book her into the Jamison Ranch disguised as Ginger, just another newbie slave pony who needed to "learn the ropes." Literally.

We were parked about 40 miles from the Jameson Ranch, but this rest stop was the last convenient place for her to transform into Pony Girl Ginger so that she would be ready to train and serve when I dropped her off. First, she pulled on a pair of very tall pony boots, equipped with chunky high heels and small horseshoes on the soles. Next, she positioned the leather bustier that supported (and highlighted) her breasts. When I finished tightening the laces, she could just about breathe, but the contraption acted like a high-end bra, compressing and lifting her B/C cups, complete with pierced and ringed nipples, to put them on display. On my command, she spread her legs and bent low, allowing me to lubricate both of her openings before installing the thick butt plug that held a folded ponytail to match her auburn hair. Then she reached behind her back, placing each of her hands against the opposite elbow so that I could wrap her in the sleeve that held her arms completely helpless. Finally, I installed a headdress that included both eye blinders and a high comb to pin her gorgeous locks into a pseudo-mane. Now approaching her 30th birthday, dressed as a pony Lois was sex personified, and no one was likely to recognize Ginger as the self-confident, conservatively-dressed owner of a ranch. Even I had to resist the temptation to fondle her.

We had discussed and rejected installing the usual voice converter collar that changed human speech into horse sounds. Without it, she could still speak, but she had practiced a meek little voice quite different from her ordinary one. Besides, the bit in her mouth should distort her speech anyway.

Before I installed the bit and bridles, however, I used alcohol swabs to disinfect a spot on her shapely left ass cheek, right next to the Spinning Wheel brand indelibly fried into her skin. Then I pulled out a small, zippered case and extracted a syringe. Holding the needle up and plunger down, I carefully ensured there was no air bubble in the thing. Her nervousness visibly increased as she watched me.

"Are you sure I should get some horny juice?" She asked, speaking very hesitantly since she was already as defenseless as any real slave. We were good friends and this whole gig was for her pleasure, but it's never wise to irritate someone when you're completely at their mercy.

"It's up to you," I shrugged. "But, this is going to be a very long, strenuous weekend for you, and a shot will help keep you sufficiently aroused to work hard and enjoy any fucking you get." ("Horny juice" was a cocktail with low doses of estrogen, progesterone, and other chemicals that as the name implies tended to make a pony girl easier to arouse. Some ranches used it regularly to make docile, eager slaves, but Lois and I agreed that the risks of cancer and other complications weren't worth it; we only gave limited injections to ease new pony girls into their training by making them more responsive to the kind of sexualized attention we used to reinforce good performance.)

She acquiesced by repeating one of the standard slave mantras, "I live to serve you, Mistress," followed a moment later by a quiet "ouch" as I punctured her rump.

"Don't you forget it, slut," I said in a friendly tone of voice as I gave her a gentle hug. "Just remember that for the next three days you're NOT in charge. Think of it as a vacation from decision-making, if nothing else. Just do what you're told and enjoy your real-life fantasy. Now, open wide."

When she complied, I installed a cushioned bit and bridle in her mouth and around her face, then hooked the other ends of her bit reins to the tiedown bar at the front of the trailer. Next, I encircled her slim waist with a safety belt, then connected the belt to four ropes on the sides of the padded trailer, holding her upright. I also clipped her "tit reins" onto the nipple rings and fed the leather back through another pair of rings under her arms. For the moment, I did NOT tie the ends of those reins down--she was going to be sufficiently uncomfortable for the next 45 minutes, standing in a swaying trailer with her arms restrained and her mouth and waist tethered to the trailer. I didn't want a sudden bump to jerk her nipples--I'd let the trainers at the Jameson Ranch give her that thrill!

I hugged "Ginger" one more time, rubbing her lower back until she relaxed, resigned to her fate. I gave her a gentle slap on her right buttock and walked out of the trailer. Two minutes later, with the ramp retracted, I restarted the truck and merged back into traffic on the Interstate. On the dashboard, a small video screen showed my not-so-little pony, legs spread several feet apart and shifting her weight easily to accommodate the movement of the vehicle. Not for the first time, I thought about the value of such a video as part of a fetish porn tape. Our video record of the Ag Department inspector was even more arousing and incriminating, as it showed Lois Spalding morphing from free woman into pony girl who was then "interviewed" (begging to be used in all three of her openings) by the inspector. Good thing I cared too much about her to sell those videos!

(

Lois Spalding's perspective

)

After bouncing around in the trailer for what seemed like hours, I reached the Jameson Ranch. In case anyone was watching us, Mary acted very much the busy stable manager--she led me briskly down the ramp and tied all four of my reins to the nearest fence railing, ordering me to "stand" which required me to freeze in position even when she gave my butt a resounding slap of departure. Her counterpart at the Jameson Ranch, Mark Walcott, scrawled his signature on a receipt for me; they were both experienced trainers who felt that things such as checking my Slave Identification Number (SIN) might give the impression that they didn't trust each other. A handshake, a promise to retrieve the pony on Sunday evening, and Mary was driving out of the ranch gate in what seemed like seconds.

I had played slave in various ways, but this was the first time when I was completely alone. I was 120 miles away from the wealth and possessions that gave me power in social situations--not only was I penniless, bur the only "clothing" I wore were pony boots and a bustier--neither of which covered the important parts. No one at the Jameson Ranch knew my identity. Mary and I had come up with a risky way of concealing my freedom: even if they looked up 875-33-9443 in the National Slave Registry, they wouldn't find any indication that I was free status. Instead, as a bonded slave merchant, Mary had modified my data in the slave registry. My real name was now buried at the bottom of the file, after my naked photographs. The file identified 875-33-9443 as "Ginger," a 25-year-old who had self-indentured herself for college money. Once I got back home, Mary would eliminate the fake data.

If I didn't return, and Lois Spalding were to disappear, the sheriff would ask the registry for my SIN, and they would trace the fake data entries back to Mary. At that point, she would "have some 'splaining to do," but she had witnesses--including her husband as well as pony trainer Haile Wilson and even the operations manager of the Longhorn Slave Market--who could testify that Lois Spalding really LOVED playing pony girl. I had given her a power of attorney to dispose of my body, and all she had really done, she could argue, was fail to register my enslavement properly.

I admit that the power of attorney was a risky and convoluted way of covering our tracks. We had even considered a Texas Free In Name Only (FINO) agreement that made me her de facto slave. But, all we were trying to do was conceal my identity temporarily, not make me into a real slave. A FINO would require consulting a slave psychiatrist and leave a trail of documents so that others would find out about my strange hobby.

To be honest, I got a little thrill every time I thought about that power of attorney--I was that close to being a real slave, which for a closet submissive is the ultimate fantasy. But now, as I stood tied and helpless at the Jameson Ranch, that fantasy suddenly seemed all too real. I trusted Mary implicitly--I must have to let her leave me in this vulnerable position. Still, for all I knew she was still smarting (perhaps literally smarting) from the time I had pressured her into playing slave along with me, in the process getting herself pierced, branded, and thoroughly shafted. She could have already copied the power of attorney and registered my enslavement with the Agriculture Department. The very idea that Mary would betray me like that seemed paranoid, but when you're a half-naked, helpless pony girl surrounded by strangers, paranoia comes with the territory. As Woody Allen once observed, "Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't after you."

All these thoughts raced through my head. I was already excited by a combination of my own submissive libido and the "horny juice" Mary had given me, so my body couldn't make up its mind whether to have a heart attack or an orgasm about being, for all practical purposes, enslaved.

I still held my legs and back braced, breasts thrust forward, in obedience to Mary's last command. That stance required that I stare at the ground straight ahead of me, but out of the corner of my eye I saw a handsome guy looking me over: brown hair with a touch of grey, sunglasses, about 4 inches taller than me, and muscular without being beefy. You might accuse me of lust at first sight, but he was a good-looking man who suddenly had absolute authority over me--a combination of factors guaranteed to gun my lust engine. I'd never met him, but from his photographs on-line I recognized this paragon as Richard Jameson, third-generation owner of this ranch.

Either I was betraying my nervousness or Richard was a very good trainer, because he decided I needed to be calmed. Slowly, as if afraid he would spook a horse, he walked up to me, making soothing sounds and complements (free people who dealt with slaves tended to talk to those slaves as if they were pets. I usually spoke to my livestock the same way, so it was both familiar and humiliating to hear someone describe ME as a "pretty pony," "good girl," and so on.) Then he was rubbing his hands firmly all over me. Most of his touches (they were too rough to be called caresses) were on my neck, shoulders, and all 4 cheeks, but he also included TITillating intimacies including cupping my breasts and thumbing my nipples and clit into stiffness. Even though I knew that this behavior was standard procedure when dealing with pony girls, I couldn't help feeling pleased and slightly aroused as he talked to me like his favorite animal. Everyone likes to be complimented, especially by a good-looking guy who has control over your situation.

*****

After I had relaxed, however, he turned me over to three pony hands for training. This marked the beginning of a three-day cycle that I recognized as a variation on Good Cop--Bad Cop. Considering what happened, it might be more accurate to describe this as Good Cock, Bad Cocks!

First were the Bad Cocks. I never really learned the names of my three handlers--names didn't matter, since I was completely in their power and had to obey any order. I came to think of these two guys and one gal as Huey, Dewey, and Daisy. There seemed to be very few pony trainees on the ranch at the moment, which meant that I got attention from all three of these winners. Lucky me.

They were all slightly younger than me, somewhere in their early to mid-20s. Huey and Dewey were rail thin and slightly pimply, while Daisy had black hair and a generous figure. (I could be cruel and described her as overweight, but I know some guys enjoyed cuddling baby fat. Besides, given her power over my ponygirl identity it wasn't safe to even THINK of criticizing her. Bitch.)

The two guys seemed to know the craft of training human ponies, but their approach to that training was equal parts of hard, repetitive physical practice and sexual teasing. For much of that long, long weekend, they put me on various machines to perfect my trot or high-step; my butt was soon red from getting walloped each time my step was less than perfect. They didn't swing their whips hard enough to break the skin, but the swats motivated me to try harder so I could avoid the pain and humiliation of being treated like a disobedient child.

I will say that they kept me well hydrated and ensured I didn't spend too much time in direct sunlight. When they thought I needed a rest, however, the guys would bend me over the nearest fence railing and then use my bit and tit reins to tie my ankles wide apart and close to the ground. Needless to say, I tried very hard to remain immobile in this uncomfortable position, because the slightest twitch would cause pain to my nipples.

Once they tied me down, Huey, Dewey, and Daisy all did their best to encourage me to move around. Spanking and fondling heated me up, after which one of the guys removed my bit but left the head harness on. This allowed him to cram his slightly sweaty dick into my mouth, while they alternated between a prick and a plastic strap-on to stretch me at the other end.

As an incipient cock whore, I have to admit that I enjoyed each penetration, provided I forgot my natural contempt for the penetrators. Therefore, I wouldn't have minded such treatment too much, except that all three of them watched me very carefully to ensure that I did NOT climax from their treatments. When one of the guys got too excited, he would pull out of me and shoot his demon seed on whichever set of my cheeks was facing him. After which, they would resume pony practice while leaving me more frustrated than ever. For a submissive like me, the IDEA of being tied up, forced to suck on a guy, and then receiving a sperm facial is deliciously humiliating, but without an orgasm the reality soon gets old.

The woman whom I called Daisy was the most malicious of my tormenters. Her plastic probe never went soft, so she could (and did) literally "fuck me to tears." When the two males left me hogtied in the shade over lunch time, she waited until they had walked away and then dropped her jeans, sat down with my head between her thighs, removed my bit, and insisted that I lick her to several orgasms. Which would have been OK (again, I'm being honest about my submissive instincts), except that the hot weather had made her untrimmed bush rather sweaty.

Throughout the weekend, Daisy kept up a constant stream of insults, to the general effect that I was a disgusting pony slut who was over the hill, not worth even manumitting because I was such a skank I would stand at the front gate and give my "aging whore's body" away for free. According to her, I was fortunate that my owner had hired them to train me; otherwise, real men like her partners (she said with a teasing smile at them) would not even bother to waste their seed on my face--if my ranch wasn't paying good money to have me trained, not even a pony boy would pay attention to me. And so on.

This act may have been deliberate, hoping to sting me into performing better to refute her insults. Still, her entire attitude conveyed a belief that she was a different, superior species in comparison to female slaves. She was also a bit of a cock-tease with her co-workers, and I'm sure she was very proud of her ability to manipulate their desires. Yet each time she walked away, I saw Huey and Dewey staring at her undulating ass with an expression that showed their desire to put HER into slave restraints. Apparently, no one had ever warned her that the sexualized treatment of slaves made men evaluate EVERY woman, free or collared, as a piece of ass for their use. She might wake up some morning in a harness herself (that thought made me smile, even though I didn't want anyone to be enslaved for real.)