Breeding the Pony Girl

Breeding the Pony Girl, Pt. 10

(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 have any intimate/sexual contact with slaves. This is pure fantasy.)

(Thanks to Joe Doe for suggesting the plot device of this episode as well as the letter from Tex Rider.)

(

Hailie Wilson's perspective

)

I try to be a decent person--friendly, honest, kind to others. There are a lot of nice people in the world, but there are also some stinkers, people who are so unhappy and unsure of themselves that they have to convince themselves they're somehow better than others. You know what I mean--men who think they're superior to women (Ha!), white folk who think they're better than Hispanics or African-Americans (an equally dumb idea), spoiled rich people who try to inflict misery on anyone who has to provide a service to them. As a woman of color who works in a blue-collar job, I encounter a lot of these self-deluded people, but I usually just ignore their attitude. At least my bosses aren't like that.

Throughout my young lifetime (I'm 25), there's been another group that EVERYONE can feel superior to, if they so wish--slaves. You can't be born a slave because of your race. Instead, the 34th Amendment permits states like my native Texas to enslave anyone over the age of 18 for crime, indebtedness, or just volunteering for indenture. That means a slave can be from any racial or ethnic background; I've even heard of well-intentioned white liberals who volunteered to be auctioned off as slaves to help finance Black-owned plantations established for restitution! It boggles my mind to think about naked white women chopping cotton under the supervision of overseers--mostly Black--who can use those white women just like Thomas Jefferson used Sally Hemings. What goes around...

So nobody even blinks at the sight of me, an African-American woman, handling slaves of all races and genders. I'm good at my job, training human slaves to be championship pony girls (and a few pony boys and bois). The Spinning Wheel Pony Ranch is one of two dozen such establishments dedicated to harness racing with a side of sexual service by the ponies. I try to be firm but humane, not making the pony slaves any more miserable than their situation dictates. Within limits, the trainers at this ranch are permitted and even EXPECTED to treat the slaves as sex objects. Some of the horny young guys (now there's a redundancy) where I work get several blowjobs a day, but I'm not interested in exploiting my unfortunate charges that way.

On Saturday evenings I get paid overtime to work with the most unusual of my pony girls--the owner of the Spinning Wheel, Lois Spalding. Of course, she's not legally a slave, although her bottom has the ranch's brand on it, and if she's not careful she might end up wearing a collar for real. I don't fully understand it, but Lois (aka Pony Girl Ginger) gets off on pretending to be a helpless, rightless, half-naked pony who pulls a sulky or fucks on demand. At least Lois is honest about what she wants, instead of enslaving herself like those liberal women who pretend to be so self-sacrificing and politically correct, volunteering for Black reparations when actually they're dreaming of some kind of Mandingo hook-up. Still, I worry about my girl Lois--even if she doesn't get enslaved for real, she may suffer serious physical or mental damage playing these games.

Three months ago, Lois took a big risk and pretended to be one of the pony girls that her ranch regularly rents out as entertainment to the Breeding Barn Café. She enjoyed being tacked up with bit, bridle, and ponytail butt plug, with me feeling her up and talking dirty to her as if she were any other pony slut. The fondling was intended to arouse her before she put on a show for hundreds of restaurant patrons, a show where well-hung pony stallions stuffed all three of her openings. After which she got rented out to wealthy patrons for individual use (aka pony prostitution). Most of these encounters turned out OK, although her ex-husband paid for the chance to beat and mount an auburn-haired slave who looked AMAZINGLY like his former spouse.

I think that encounter scared Lois, although I won't guarantee how long she STAYS scared. The girl gives new meaning to the phrase "Can't keep her pants on." For the moment, however, she's too afraid to play any pony games (where's Rudolf when you need him?) off her own land. In turn, that means she keeps wanting ME to treat her more and more like a bimbo pony slut (sorry, that's how slave handlers talk--ir's all part of convincing the slaves that they should enjoy being used sexually.)

We're well beyond our first cautious evening rides, when I was unwilling to whack her, insult her, and fondle her. I gradually realized that my part-time pretend pony actually LIKES to be treated that way. Lois isn't looking for pain, although she sometimes thanked me afterwards because I had strapped her butt and called her slutty names just as I would any other pony who didn't perform to standard. In fact, that's what she enjoyed, the sense of being a real pony slave subject to all the controls applied to her livestock. Once I understood that, I really started to tease and belittle her that way; it turned both of us on to reverse our usual power roles, but I guess it means I'm just as willing as sexists and racists to look down on my "inferiors." So sue me--it's fun and she wants me to do it.

When we go out for a ride, Lois is usually wearing both a bit and a conversion collar that turns any words into pony sounds. A typical "conversation" consists of her whinnying and stomping her high-heeled pony boots in response to my talking down to her: "Don't my fingers feel nice in your juicy slave cunt? You're so wet and turned on. Don't worry, baby girl, we'll find someone with a nice big cock to shove up your horny butt--you'll love that, won't you? You're such an eager ass whore," And so on.

As I said, I had to overcome my natural reluctance to treat anyone, let alone a nice person who was legally free, like that. Then, this last Saturday, before the usual pony ride, my immediate boss, stable manager Mary Jacobs, took me aside and told me what Lois REALLY expected me to do with and to her. Because Lois (Mizz Spalding when her clothes are on) carefully regulates just how much sex each if her ponies get, Mary gave me a "permission slip" authorizing a male ranch hand/trainer to use any or all of "Ginger's" openings this evening. The slip was signed "Lois Spalding"--in effect, she had given me written permission to turn her into an animal and have one of her own employees fuck her slave stupid!

Then Mary told me that SHE had selected Ginger's "date" for the evening--Chad Warwick.

*****

(

Lois Spalding's perspective

)

When Chad Warwick first applied for a part-time job at the Spinning Wheel, he looked so young (roughly 15) that I personally checked with the county records office AND the high school to ensure that he was, in fact, 18 years of age. He had reached that age in January of his senior year, making him old enough to work in the slave industry.

Lots of 18-year-olds are big, strapping guys, but not Chad, who was about my height (5 foot 10). He was rail thin and pimply faced with birth control glasses--the classic nerd. He couldn't do much about his appearance, but he certainly tried hard at the job. He put in about 90 hours on his spring break learning the laws and procedures so that he could qualify for the basic slave handler's license--which, I will admit, Chad passed on the first try. Since then, he'd been working weekends, usually as a stable guard who looks after the ponies when they're locked into their stalls. I leave selection and training of such folks to Mary and her department heads, so I'd never even formally met the boy (he was legally a man, aged 18, but it was hard to think of him as such.)

I REALLY wanted to get laid as a pony, which is why I gave that permission slip to Mary. I was daydreaming about one of the older, manly trainers who worked for me, but Mary shot that idea down. She pointed out that I had better not service anyone who knew me very well, since even wearing a safety helmet my red hair and body shape were distinctive. Besides, the stable boss argued, a REAL pony has no say in who uses her--just leave it to Hailie and her to pick some part-timer, who was unlikely to recognize me in pony mode.

I know I've written before that I enjoy being humiliated, but there's a limit even for me. Imagine the scene that Saturday evening: I'm all tacked up, forearms bound behind my back, bunghole full of a tail plug, and both bit and tit reins available for the ranch hands to force instant compliance with their orders. The voice converter collar has reduced me to a dumb animal that can only make horse noises. Inside, I finally understand how my pony girls feel when they know they're actually going to get LAID, and they're hoping it will be Stud's turgid intruder filling all their holes.

Instead, though, Hailie steps out for a minute and comes back with Chad, at 18 probably the youngest and scrawniest of my employees. He's 12 years younger than me, I pay his salary, and yet when I see that piece of paper in his hands I realize that

I

had authorized him to use me as his sex toy for the evening! I feel like dying of embarrassment AND frustration.

Hailie is stage whispering to him so that I can hear most of what she's saying--how older mares (wait a minute, I haven't foaled yet) have more experience and they're so grateful that they give the free man a REAL ride. She apparently believes that Chad is still a virgin, and she's probably right--I wouldn't have fucked him back in high school or college, that's for sure. Then she tells him she'll be back in 45 minutes or so, and closes the stall door, leaving me blushing deep red while this KID (yes, he's technically an adult, age 18) looks at me.

For a moment I see uncertainty in his eyes, but then he suddenly becomes resolute. I shy away when he reaches for my reins, but he's not having any of THAT--Mary has trained him never to put up with any resistance from the pony sluts! He grabs my four reins and pulls HARD, causing me to squeal in horsy language (thanks to the voice converter) and fall to my knees in submission, my nipples on fire. In a flash, the short strap hanging from his equipment belt is in his hand and walloping my backside. I notice that he disciplines like a real pro--no hesitation, no emotion, hard enough to punish me without breaking the skin or really injuring me. And I deserved it, too--his reaction is entirely correct, and I'm humiliated all over again by my failure to perform my chosen role.

Chad reminds me that an "old mare" like me should never resist--he tells me that I'm a useless, over-the-hill, ass whore of a slave cunt who should be overjoyed to serve him even if it means licking his boots. Funny thing is--he's right! I no longer see a pimply-faced 18-yer-old but a real master who is in complete control. Remind me to give this guy a raise; he's a natural slave handler.

At the moment, though, he wants another form of raise--he pops the bit out of my mouth and replaces it with a respectable-sized stiffy. For a few minutes my head is moving back and forth as he pumps my face. Then he orders me into Slave 4's, kneeling doggie-style on the bunk. In a moment, this kid turned master is balls deep inside my slave cunt and we're both having the time of our lives.

He doesn't last too long, probably because he's never fucked anything other than his hand before. Still, he's got me just as worked up as he is, so I climax before he coats my cunt canal with cum.

Hailie reappears with suspicious promptness, confirming my fears that she's watched my subjugation on the TV. As Chad carefully mops my dripping thighs, she talks to me as the bimbo pony Ginger. "Did you enjoy getting fucked, little bitch?" I toss my head and paw the floor, telling the honest truth.

Hailie giggles at my reaction. "You really are a total slut, Ginger. Well, if you behave yourself MAYBE you can return to your stall later this evening and give Master Chad a real pony blowjob." Son of a gun--after an abbreviated sulky trip outside, she brings me back to "my" stall, just in time for Chad to face-fuck me. And she's right, I DO enjoy it, right down to displaying his goo on my tongue until he gives me permission to swallow. Then she gives Chad some song and dance about how Ginger works in various places and wouldn't be spending the night in her stall. I think both Chad and I are disappointed!

I worried that Chad would some day encounter the ranch owner and see the resemblance--I don't want to sound arrogant, but I think he would remember the cunt he used to lose his virginity. Fortunately, he was accepted to college at Texas Southern. So I wrote him a brilliant recommendation--which he deserved--and got Jesse Foster to hire him at the Longhorn Slave Market.

*****

I tell you this story about Chad to show how I tried to limit myself when I indulged my "hobby." Of course, Sam Houston Sterling of the Agriculture Department came by to give Ginger her quarterly "probing" interview. That was always fun, but other than Chad, Mr. Sterling, and pony training under Mistress Hailie, I've been a good girl about my addiction. (I will admit that I removed the padding from my office chair, just so I can rub my butt against the hard wood, stroking the edges of my brand through my jeans.)

Instead, I've been cautiously--or perhaps incautiously--developing a "normal," non-submissive relationship with Richard Jameson, who owns his family's training ranch. It started with Mary insisting that I had to telephone and meet with him personally about training some of my ponies at his spread. I should be annoyed at her matchmaking, except that it worked. We enjoyed each other's company so much that we began to hang out together at industry functions, race meets, and so on. Before I knew it, each of us was making up excuses to telephone or see the other. We had a lot in common, not only our business but our backgrounds, interests, sense of humor--you name it.

Only once did Richard bring up the subject of "Ginger," saying that she showed potential as a trotter. When I changed the subject, he didn't press me. He's such a smart guy, and we've now spent hours together, so sometimes I don't see how he CAN'T know my secret. I've even been tempted to confess to him, but what if I've read him wrong? What if he doesn't know, and becomes so disgusted that he stops talking to me or even tells other people? So I keep drifting along, enjoying his company and too afraid to risk losing him.

Two weeks ago, it finally got personal. He took me out to dinner and we talked about everything, from the recent increase in pony rustling (mostly taking slaves down to Mexico) to the Astros' chances this season to the Texas Freedom Foundation being put together to help former slaves regain their lives. When he walked me to my hotel room, he didn't ask to come in (darn it) but he DID take me in his arms and kiss me, tongue and all. I know that sounds like we're in high school rather than adults who manage sexually-charged businesses, but it's got to be the most romantic thing that's happened to me since... I can't remember. I already knew Richard was fantastic in bed, but now I realized he was equally good as a kisser, a lover. I suddenly realized that this was a large part of what I'd been missing. Yes, I love it when a master uses every opening a slave can offer, not to mention thighs, boobs, butt crack, and so on. But I don't think I've ever heard of a master (or mistress) KISSING a slave. That was especially true in my personal obsession of pony girls, who are reduced to animal status and mounted from the rear. I didn't worry about that at the time, of course--I was too busy kissing and clinging to him to think about anything else.

The next time we met, we went straight to necking and fondling, and THIS time we ended up in my hotel room. To keep my clothes on and conceal my branding, I implied that it was my time of the month, so I slid down to my knees and let Richard tickle my tonsils with his fleshy tongue-depressor. Recalling what he had said to "Ginger" about how an expert cocksucker should act, I put a huge grin on my well-stuffed mouth as I stared upward into his eyes, doing my best to give him the impression that swallowing his sword was the greatest experience of my life. Which didn't take much acting on my part--giving pleasure to this magnificent, gentle guy was something that both Lois AND Ginger could enjoy.

By the time he thanked me profusely and left me alone that night, I was in lust and probably love, and I was convinced that Richard MUST know that I was Ginger. If nothing else, he'd had two blowjobs from Ginger and one from Lois, and surely he would recognize my technique. I began to think that maybe I could have it all, but I just hadn't summoned the nerve to talk with him about it.

*****

And then I got a letter from Tex Rider (his real name, I kid you not) of the Dancer Ranch. 15 years ago, Tex had saved my Dad from financial ruin with an interest-free loan during a temporary cash flow problem. Daddy and the teenaged version of Lois both swore that we owed him a big one: anything he wanted, anytime, anywhere. It seemed like such a little thing to please Tex--he wanted to borrow one of my ponies for a day, to use in a parade and then at a fair booth.

A little background: when slavery returned to Texas decades ago, the Agriculture Department began to certify ordinary medical doctors--anyone who had finished his or her internship and paid a $20 application fee--as slave veterinarians. By now, however, the demand for such vets had grown so great that the supply of MDs willing to settle for such a low-status branch of medicine was insufficient. Why bandage whip marks on slaves when you could be a family practice physician or surgeon? So, the University of Texas--which had never been allowed to have a "normal" Veterinary School that might compete with A&M--had started a program to turn out genuine SLAVE veterinarians, and the medical and agricultural authorities had gone along with it. The graduates could practice human medicine, but only on humans wearing collars.

Tex's youngest daughter, Abby, was in the second class at this new program. For the annual Texas Slave Expo in Houston, Abby and her classmates were planning two different activities. First, they wanted a twelve-pony team to pull a lightweight copy of the Conestoga wagon in a parade, followed by using those ponies as exhibits in their veterinary booth at the Expo itself. So, Tex signed up to assemble the pony team consisting of different ethnicities and hair colors. He had a black-haired Chinese pony, a blond Nordic pony, a dark-haired Hispanic girl, and so on. He was looking for long-legged, big-titted show ponies of various complexions to attract attention.

So, what did he want from the Spinning Wheel? You guessed it. He had heard a rumor that my ranch had a red-haired pony--Ginger! In his e-mail, Tex wrote,

"In addition to the parade, the kids would probably use her in their booth to show off some of their vet skills, but they'd go easy on the whip and get her back to you in a tick. A lot of horse trading goes on during those shows, so if you want to set a price on her Abby will be happy to show her off to any potential buyers, or just let you review the bids later."

For three months, I'd been a relatively good girl about keeping my particular perversion to myself. Now came an offer I literally couldn't refuse--I genuinely owed Tex big time, and if I refused to lend him Ginger it would cause more trouble than I would risk by cooperating. Sigh. Truth was, of course, that I really WANTED to be Pony Girl Ginger in a parade! So, I was easy to convince: he had me at "borrow a pony girl." At the very least, I would spend a day under complete slave discipline, and with any luck one of the students or visitors to the Expo would feel me up and test my performance.