Breeding the Pony Girl

Breeding the Pony Girl, Pt. 07

(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 pure fantasy. Thanks to Joe Doe for expert web page design.)

(

Mary Jacobs' viewpoint

)

The web page of the Spinning Wheel Pony Ranch featured a photograph of a woman's buttock that bore the ranch's brand, the seared outline of a spoked wheel with a wide bar below it to represent the treadle and one rod running from the center of the wheel to the spindle on the right side. Lois Spalding, the wealthy, 29-year-old woman who owned the Spinning Wheel, had designed that web page to convey just how serious we were about turning human slaves into championship ponies.

Until the events I'm about to relate, however, only five people knew that the shapely, branded ass cheek on that web site belonged to Lois herself--although as her stable manager I bore an identical brand on my middle-aged rear end.

I thought that might get your attention. Long story short: Lois got a sexual charge out of pretending to be one of her own pony girls, and I had helped her dress up the first time she was mounted (in all three openings) by her pony boy stallion, 25-year-old Stud (believe me, his cock and balls lived up to that name). When I suggested that, to blend into the herd on future occasions, Lois needed to have her ranch brand on her rump, she had insisted that I experience the same thing along with her. One Saturday, we had checked into the Longhorn Slave Market under kennel rules that required us to be slave naked, collared, and cuffed. It actually was a lot of fun to have four hunky slave wranglers gangbang us (since they took care to ensure we enjoyed the process), but the final step, in which we got our nipples pierced and our asses burned, was nothing but pain. (Sounds like the old joke where the physician gives a prescription to a masochist: "Take two ass-burns and call me in the morning." Only it wasn't a joke that next morning.)

Since then, Lois had engaged in "field trips," pretending to be a slave in various situations and usually getting herself fucked slave stupid in the process, which for her was the object of the exercise. But now I had lost a bet that promised to expose both of our reputations as well as our branded behinds.

I probably shouldn't have told Lois about the bet while she was drinking a beer, because it turned into a classic spit-take that wasted most of a cold longneck. "You promised them WHAT?"

"Them" in this case were our counterparts at the Tribade Training Ranch, owner Moira O'Neill and manager Sylvia Marcus. Yeah, I agreed to a foolish bet with them on the outcome of a harness race between our stallion Stud and their champion Arnold. Stud had never lost a race before; how was I to know that Arnold was as much of a terminator as his namesake?

The bet was that the losing pair of free women had to spend 48 hours as pony girls for the winners. That in itself would be embarrassing and painful, since ponies are routinely whacked with whips or otherwise disciplined. But the name of Moira's ranch should convey the additional issue, which was that Moira and Sylvia were probably the most out-there, un-closeted lesbians in East Texas, INCLUDING Austin. They seemed like nice people, but I guess they'd been hassled so often that they went out of their way to fulfil the ridiculous stereotypes of being Butch. I have absolutely no objections to whatever kind of intimate relations occur between consenting adults; I had just politely declined when Sylvia had propositioned me the year before. Now, however, my big mouth had obligated Lois and me to spend a weekend as de facto slaves to these two ladies. And slaves don't get to say "no" to any kind of sex their owners demand. I felt bad about the bet for myself, and even worse that I was dragging Lois (who looks a hell of lot sexier than I) into it. I could tell she was about to quote Oliver Hardy ("Here's another nice mess you've gotten me into,") but one look at my face reminded her that she owed me, big time, for going along with her to the Longhorn to get myself nipple-pierced and branded. So, she had to swallow her bile and go along with it. No telling what else we might have to swallow that weekend.

*****

Most pony ranchers live by the old-fashioned idea that a verbal promise is binding, so there was no reneging on the bet. There was still a lot of negotiating involved before we fulfilled the agreement two weeks later--non-disclosure agreements, promises not to take any images, record us in any way, or divulge our identity to others, and so on. Even with such limitations, it's a scary thing for two independent women to become slaves in the power of two other women who planned to inflict unspecified humiliations on us. The final arrangement was that Lois and I would arrive at their ranch, already in full pony mode, by 5 p.m. on a given Friday, and could be picked up 48 hours later.

That schedule meant confiding our secret to the other two people at the Spinning Wheel Ranch who knew about Lois' (and now my) propensity to play pony slut: my husband and the head cook, Bill, and one of our most experienced pony trainers, Hailie Wilson. By that point, Haile had spent several evenings driving Pony Girl Ginger (Lois) around the back roads of the ranch. Now, however, Haile insisted that she needed to give ME the same training in preparation for our fun-filled weekend as pony femmes at the Tribade.

I started to complain that I had spent 25 years training pony girls, so I didn't need to practice being one while looking foolish. Yet, Lois agreed with Hailie that I had to learn to obey rather than direct things. In fact, she added, Hailie should harness us up in tandem, so that we were accustomed to working together when Moira and Sylvia wanted us to pull a sulky or buggy for them. Trust Lois to find a way to indulge her own submissiveness, and I could tell that Hailie REALLY liked the idea of controlling both of her bosses in harness. Talk about power exchanges--going from owner and manager to two pony sluts driven by our own employee must be close to a perfect freefall from top to bottom. And I had the feeling that my branded bottom was likely to feel the whip a few times.

Hailie usually drove Lois around on Saturday evenings, when most of our staff were out drinking and the full-time inventory was locked into their stalls. So about 6 p.m. on the next Saturday, we gathered in B-18, the modified stall where Lois usually transformed herself into a pony. I had brought along my own, newly-acquired set of pony boots, bustier, bit and bridle headdress, and even a damned ponytail butt plug. For 15 minutes, Lois and I helped each other get dressed, tightening straps and installing the hated ponytails. I felt quite vulnerable when she had me put my arms behind my back, one hand on the opposite elbow, while she wrapped the leather sleeve around my forearms, rendering them immobile. She told me to open wide while she fitted the bit into my mouth and strapped on the headdress, complete with hair comb (for my "mane") and blinders beside my eyes.

From my point of view, things became much more uncomfortable when Hailie appeared to bind Lois' arms and install her bit and bridle. Just when I thought we were finished, Hailie snapped carabiniers through Lois' nipple rings, then threaded the "tit reins" connected to those carabiniers back through the rings under my boss's arms. Hailie picked up another set of tit reins and advanced on me, obviously intending to equip me the same way (which would ensure considerable discomfort whenever she pulled back on the reins to halt me!) Talking around the unfamiliar bit in my mouth, I tried to tell my long-time subordinate--and now my temporary mistress--that I didn't need the second set of reins, but that only made her more insistent. I had never seen her look so exasperated before.

Once she had me hooked up, Hailie remarked, "This evening, I'm the trainer and you're the ponies. Ponies don't talk without permission, so I guess we'll have to use these." So saying, she wrapped an electronic collar around my neck, one that would convert any human speech into horsey sounds. When I shied a little, she grasped all four reins, (attached to my mouth bit and my nipple rings) and pulled firmly downward. I got the message and stood stock still while she finished collaring us.

Our new mistress continued her monologue: "I learned to be a trainer from one of the greatest ever" she remarked, looking directly at me. "And she got upset whenever I tried to be too kind to ponies. My mentor always told me that 'you're not doing the pony any favors by being soft. Always maintain the standards and ensure the pony suffers the consequences when she disobeys.'" Well, trapped by my own words; guess I'd better behave for this girl--I mean, this mistress. Just then she added. "And that applies to the two fillies I have to train tonight--or should I say one filly named Ginger and one old mare named Maud." (A pony girl that has foaled is usually called a mare, but I didn't like to be reminded that I was twice the age of most of the ponies on the ranch. How to kick a broad when she's down.)

Having established that she was in charge, Hailie gathered our bridles and led us to the step machine inside the same barn, where I spent 20 minutes stumbling in an attempt to trot properly. I don't know which was worse, Hailie's scathing critiques of my stupidity or the sound of my exasperated whinnying. The whacks I got on my butt reminded me that I needed to be more tolerant of new ponies trying to master the step. I didn't hear Lois getting swatted, making me even more humiliated that I, the expert trainer, couldn't do what any first-week pony slut was expected to do.

Next she led us outside to a waiting sulky. I was still learning to walk in those crazy, high-heels-with-horseshoes boots, and I had to tiptoe obediently behind her for fear of getting my breasts tugged. At least focusing on my walking reduced my acute sense of helpless exposure in public. The two temporary pony girls waited while their mistress harnessed them, side by side, in front of the buggy. I hoped that she would take us away from the barns quickly in case another hand saw us. First, however, she pulled out her smart phone, said "smile," and took side-shot photos of our fronts, complete with bits, bridles, and tit rings. My mind told me that the blinders on the sides of our faces would make us unrecognizable, but it was still nerve wracking to have someone photograph me in such an outlandish, vulnerable bondage. Then I heard her walk back to the sulky and felt the added weight when she sat down. For some reason, she said "smile" again, and I heard her phone clicking behind us. (And that, my friends, is how we got the current images on the ranch website, showing a PAIR of branded female backsides on one side and a PAIR of blinkered, bitted, and tit-roped ponies on the other. I didn't even get a modelling fee for the photos--that night I literally "went the extra mile" for my employer--who was harnessed right beside me!)

I didn't see those images until we got done, however. For the next two hours, until the last vestige of sunset disappeared, she worked us hard. I realized that Lois and Hailie were right, that I had no idea how to BE a pony girl even though I had years of TRAINING pony girls. It felt as if Lois and I were pulling in different directions at least half the time, and even when we did get in synch with each other, my body was not accustomed to the heavy pulling and trotting (high-stepping) necessary to move the sulky. Every time I took a wrong step I heard and felt a sharp swish from my young mistress' whip across my branded ass. The first few times this happened, the electronic collar translated my startled reaction into neighs. It didn't really hurt much, but being switched by one of my own subordinates, who was treating me like the rawest piece of pony meat, was deeply humiliating. I had to keep reminding myself that she was only doing what I had taught her to do, and that with any luck practicing now would avoid the deeper shame of failure when Moira and Sylvia played pony games with us.

At one point, Hailie called a halt, in the process pulling the bit well to the back of my mouth and giving a zing to both of my nipples. In a leisurely manner, she dismounted, walked around front, and stuck the straw of a water bottle into my mouth. The whole time this 20-something child was watering me, her other hand was teasing my labia and groping my boobs, all while talking to me like a pet ("That's a GOOD little pony slut; don't my fingers feel nice in your wet slave cunt?")--just as if I were any 18-year-old bimbo in our herd instead of 46! Damned if I didn't nod my head, nicker, and stomp my hoof in assent! The really embarrassing thing was that I enjoyed her teasing me, and even began to imagine how nice it would be to spend a weekend under Mistress Hailie. Where did THAT idea come from, I wondered? The image of someone using Pony Mare Maud as a sex toy had become oddly exciting.

I was exhausted when we finally got back to the barn (complete with another full pull on my bit and tits!) As Hailie unhooked and unlaced us, I saw a look of apprehension on her face. She was clearly wondering whether I was going to tear her a new one for the way she had treated me. Instead, when she removed my bit and collar, I thanked her sincerely for teaching me, and said that I had expected nothing less from my best trainer. She went away happy, and I went to my quarters for a long bath.

Bill knew what we had been up to that evening, but he fell out of his chair laughing when he caught sight of my well-switched butt. Of course, he offered to take me out for a spin the next evening, and when I declined, he suggested that he might do so at the end of next weekend, when I'd be tacked up and unable to resist. I recounted the whole story of my evening, trying to make it seem humorous in hopes of reducing the sting I would feel when my own husband pulled me off a horse trailer by those damned tit reins.

*****

That climactic moment came soon enough. Four free people--Lois, Hailie, Bill, and I--climbed into a king cab pickup truck when we left the Spinning Wheel on the following Friday. After a halt at a layby, however, two free people drove the truck through the gate at the Tribade Ranch, where they led two bound, branded, and defenseless pony girls off the trailer and turned them over to a grinning Moira O'Neill and Sylvia Marcus. Bill and Hailie pretended to be just two bored hands, delivering some unidentified pony sluts because their boss had told them to. Even in our outlandish attire, we were instantly recognizable to Moira and Sylvia, but Bill produced a transfer hand receipt for two ponies--Ginger and Maud--and turned down our front lips so that our new mistresses could verify the slave identification numbers. (If you're wondering, this scene was going to be deeply humiliating no matter how we played it, but if we went missing now there were two witnesses who could swear they had turned over two human beings, with SINs as listed on the hand receipt, to Sylvia at the Tribade Ranch. We trusted Moira and Sylvia not to keep us longer than 48 hours, but this was an insurance policy.)

The dust from that pickup truck hadn't settled before Moira and Sylvia were laughing, fit to bust, while looking at their helpless new playthings. We had been reduced from their social and business equals to sexualized slaves, and needless to say I was blushing.

(

Lois Spalding's perspective

)

My previous adventures in a collar had seen me pretending to be someone other than Lois Sterling, ranch owner and pony trainer. Now, however, there was no fiction or cover story--I had reduced myself to slavery and surrendered to two competitors who knew exactly who they had to play with.

As I expected, they cut to the chase, first extracting our bits but leaving our headgear on. Then, with complete lack of modesty, the two well-built women dropped their jeans and panties, sat down on two high stools in front of their main barn, and told us to get to work. It was awkward to bend over while wearing pony boots and arm binder, but I managed it, although I was so unbalanced that my face was shoved firmly into her crotch. Which was what she wanted anyway.

Being heterosexual, I had only two previous experiences with this situation--the slave wranglers had told Mary and me to 69 while we were waiting to be branded, and then a female trainer at Jameson Ranch had insisted I get her off when the male trainers were not around. Now I went to work--not only did I want to get this over with by getting Moira off, but to be honest I got a little thrill out of servicing a dominant woman. Besides, she was shaved smooth and both smelled and tasted sweet, so it wasn't much of a hardship. I started writing the alphabet with my tongue across her labia and clit. In minutes, her hands were maneuvering my head between her thighs, trying to direct my tongue and lips to different spots. Those thighs muffled my ears, but vaguely I heard approving sounds come out of both of the women in front of us. It didn't take too long before Moira came (twice), and I think Sylvia wasn't far behind her.

They let us back up, restored the bits to our mouths, and then gave us water bottle straws to suck. Both women were in a mellow mood after their servicing, so they used kind voices to praise our tongues while they teased our bound bodies in the same way that Hailie had done six days earlier. This part wasn't meant to be humiliating, but again I was the subhuman bimbo pet being groped and talked to like any brainless slave.

Next on their agenda was having us pull a sulky; as Sylvia was harnessing us, she stopped suddenly and called for her boss to come look. I knew what they were looking at--the brands on our asses. Mary and I had dreaded this discovery, and had promised never to admit the details even if we could talk--our whole attitude would be "What? You mean you DON'T have your ranch brand on your butts?"

It didn't come to that, though. Moira whistled, giggled, then fondled my left buttock, saying "You girls are kinkier than we are, and that's saying something. Any woman who freely gets herself branded is all right in my book!" Sylvia seemed to agree and this strange discovery, on top of our previous tongue work, changed the whole tone of how they treated us that weekend.

We still spent the weekend as their slaves, of course, but their efforts at jeering and humiliation were (mostly) light-hearted. I cringed the first few times I heard the sound of a whip, but both of our temporary mistresses were skilled horsewomen who just barely grazed our asses when they wanted us to start trotting; it was too hot for cantering, thank heavens. They giggled whenever we whinnied in response to their whacks.

I'm not going to lie; it was embarrassing, uncomfortable, and painful to be treated like a pony in training. Even though the whip strokes were gentle, there was nothing gentle about feeling that bit pulled into the back of my mouth while my boobs got a painful jerk from the tit reins. Hailie hadn't been too gentle on me when she trained me, but I found those Saturday evenings as a sort of fantasy excursion. As Moira and Sylvia took turns jerking us around, reality set in--this was what it felt like for our own ponies to be reduced to docile beasts of burden, doing only what we were forced to do. I imagined that the situation really galled Mary, but as for me? I slipped into sub-space and enjoyed it. My thighs were damp long before we finished.