Breeding the Pony Girl

Breeding the Pony Girl, Pt. 11

(This story is set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is commonplace for serious crime, unredeemed debt, or voluntary self-indenture.

All characters who are enslaved or have any intimate/sexual contact with slaves are 18 years of age or older

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

(Both the basic plot of this episode and the dialogue when Lois is offered for sale are courtesy of Joe Doe.)

(

Lois Spalding's Perspective

)

I had never imagined I would actually get bored (in the dual senses of physical penetration and mental indifference) with having my clitoris fondled.

I was bent over a sawhorse, a bridle and bit securing me head down on one side, my forearms restrained behind my back, and on the other side my booted legs were stretched across a spreader bar, literally "showing my ass" to the world--or at least to anyone passing by at the annual Slave Expo. Ordinarily, I would be at the booth for my own business, the Spinning Wheel Pony Ranch, talking to customers who wanted to train, rent, or buy pony girl slaves. My stable manager and friend Mary Jacobs would have to woo the customers today--I was otherwise occupied.

Being a horny little submissive, I had not been able to resist another opportunity to pretend to be a pony girl myself. Tex Rider, who had done my late father a huge financial favor 15 years earlier, had called in his marker. His youngest daughter Abby was a student in the new Slave Veterinary program at the University of Texas. For the Slave Expo, therefore, Tex had assembled a team of ponies with different hair colors and ethnicities to pull a Conestoga wagon in the parade and then be "demonstrators" at the Slave Veterinary booth. Tex had heard that my ranch had a well-endowed, auburn-haired pony, a coloration he needed to complete his team, so he asked me to lend Ginger to Abby for the day--not knowing, of course, that Pony Girl Ginger was really Lois Spalding in disguise.

Once again, my horniness overcame my common sense, so my employees and friends had delivered a helpless "Ginger" to the parade early that morning. The parade was good fun for any submissive exhibitionist, a team of mostly-naked, bound women trotting down the street while thousands of male on-lookers popped boners from the view. Afterwards, I was one of three slaves bent over for a "Pin the Tail on the Pony Girl" event. Anyone who could prove that he or she was at least age 18 got to feel me up, running a vibrator across my clit until I ALMOST reached a minor climax; that in turn would make me relax my sphincter so that the lucky volunteer could stuff me with the bulky butt plug that anchored my ponytail. So, the sequence went: pull out the plug (often roughly), tease the helpless slut for a few minutes, ALMOST give the pony a minor orgasm, and re-stuff her butt, leaving her unsatisfied. Then repeat, about every two minutes. It was a combination of the slowest, most incomplete or spoiled climax of my life and an even slower butt pegging, at the rate of about 30 penetrations and 30 withdrawals per hour. What might have been fun at a faster pace was now agonizingly boring--and I never got to cum! (Was it too much to hope that this little game would help some of the guys learn how to give their women more pleasure? Probably.)

I had no idea how long this had been going on--it seemed like hours--but I was bored out of my pony gourd. Did I mention that I was also wearing a voice conversion collar, so that my sighs and cries were translated into nickers and whinnies? (I wondered briefly if the "nicker" sound made by a horse was somehow related to the fact that everyone could get into a pony girl's "nickers." But then, pony girls never get to wear knickers, so probably not.)

Since I wasn't a real slave, this boredom was self-inflicted and I had nothing to complain about so I just tried to endure. It could have been worse, of course--consider Charlene, the big-breasted blonde slut crying quietly as she got the same treatment while bent over the sawhorse next to mine. Several months ago, Charlene had been an arrogant, cock-teasing pony trainer who took great pleasure in insulting and humiliating Ginger when I sent my alter-ego for trotting training at the ranch where she worked. Then Charlene got enslaved for debt, giving her first-hand (or perhaps first-ass and first-cunt?) experience in being a slave slut. I couldn't decide whether she deserved my scorn or my pity.

After the first 20-odd pony peggings, I at least got a distraction in the form of one of the Slave Vet students, whose nametag read "CJ." He must have been as bored as I was, because he approached me on the inside of the exhibit, where no one could see him clearly, pulled out a respectable-sized set of "wedding tackle," and simply ordered "mouth" to me. By now, I'd given enough pony blow jobs to be pretty good at it, bringing him off in five minutes or so. He repaid the favor by pulling out and spraying his semi-transparent goo all over my face. Darn--I was looking forward to a white protein shake for lunch.

That probably would have tasted better than what I did eat. Charlene, I, and the third girl were replaced for a "lunch break" while three other members of the wagon team took our places on the sawhorses. As I listened to the Slave Vet students talking among themselves, I gathered that except for Abby Rider they had little to no experience with pony slaves. That showed in the way they treated us, leaving us with our forearms bound behind us for more than six hours so far. Which meant that we had to eat "lunch" without our hands, kneeling on the concrete floor, our bits momentarily removed while we shoved our faces into bowls of tasteless slave kibble followed by trying to lap water out of bowls as if we were dogs (I know that any female slave is a "bitch," but this was taking that insult to an inefficient extreme). Eventually, Abby saw what we were doing, and she at least knew enough to release the forearms of two ponies at a time, allowing us to regain our circulation, rinse off our faces, and straddle the pee grates more gracefully. Since "Lois Spalding" wasn't there as a witness, I wondered how I could suggest to the Slave Vet program that they needed to ensure all students learned how to handle all types of slaves.

Abby did take the time to show her classmates how to tighten my forearm binder as well as my bustier and demonstrated various ways to keep a pony aroused--finger-fucking, goosing, playing with the clit and nipples, all while whispering promises of demeaning sexual use. I LOVED that kind of treatment, and seriously thought about hiring Abby when she finished school. Eventually, though, it was time for me to again let strangers diddle me and plug my butt for another hour or so.

Before that could happen, however, Abby's father showed up, and I soon realized that he was headed towards me--or rather, Ginger. I hadn't seen him in a decade, but even so I was thankful that the helmet concealed much of my face.

Tex was loud and quite crude in his assessment of Ginger, whom he had watched in the parade. In fact, he wanted to examine her personally--which implied that he wanted to tear off a piece of pony tail. At least he led me to the far back of the exhibit, out of sight of the visitors and even of his daughter. (Slave sex is rarely considered private, but a gentleman shouldn't be having it in front of his own daughter, for crying out loud.)

Tied to a portable breeding frame, I was not particularly impressed by the aging, wilted cock that he presented for my oral attention. I don't know whether he took a blue pill or what, but after five minutes of my best licking and sucking his member grew in length, circumference, and rigidity until it reached a respectable size. How to make a slave slut feel appreciated!

Just when I thought he was going to give me my second facial of the day, however, Master Tex pulled out, used his wet prick to slap my face a few times, and then walked around to my main entrance, so to speak.

"You've got a fine looking ass there, little filly--I'll have to tell Lois Spalding to make sure you get used more often, maybe knocked up so you can produce some equally-fine fucking foals." I knew he thought that was both a compliment and a great treat, so I enthusiastically whinnied and tossed my head as if to thank him. He laughed at that: "I knew you were a horny girl--you were dripping down your thighs all during the parade. In fact, I need to call up Ms. Spaulding and find out how much she would take to sell you."

By then, his hands were gripping my ass HARD; if he knew Braille, he would have been able to read my Spinning Wheel brand with his fingertips. I needed to keep him happy, not to mention that I was three hours overdue for a good pounding, so I tried to move my rear around as much as my bonds would permit, showing him I was eager for his shaft.

And he DID shaft me, but before my body could even begin to respond, I felt something liquid inside of me and he was done, pulling out and zipping up. Thinking about it afterwards, I realized that in my previous slave games I has become spoiled. The people (and stallions) who fucked me had mostly been concerned that I enjoy myself, and I did. Hell, even my anal orifice ex-husband made SOME effort to turn the pony on, perhaps because when we were married I had berated him for lack of foreplay. Until Tex Rider.

It wasn't that he was deliberately cruel or mean to me, it just never occurred to him to think about my pleasure. He was like the vast majority of slave owners, who regarded slaves as sub-human servants who happened to have moist openings that were convenient for a free person to use sexually. Think of an X-rated house elf from Harry Potter. Poor men had plastic "flesh lights" to get off with, while rich men used cunts, asses, and mouths of their real-life "flesh lights." I had often thrilled to the sensation of being a sex slave who could be used by any adult in any way, but being a living sex toy whose physical and mental feelings were of absolutely no interest to an owner was both more demeaning and far less erotic. THIS was the ultimate loss of power, and I realized again that I DIDN'T really want slavery.

Part of my problem, of course, was that I had already been teased and denied for several hours of pin-the-tail-on-the-pony-girl BEFORE Tex mounted me, gunned my sexual engine, and then jumped off again while my loins were still humping empty air, desperate for satisfaction. And THEN Kathy took me back out to the sawhorses for ANOTHER round of tease-and-deny. My only previous experience with this kind of edging was when Sam Houston Sterling made me beg to be fucked, and he needed less than 20 minutes to turn me into a frantic bimbo slut. At the Expo, the teasing had gone on for hours, putting me into a sub haze that left me desperate for an orgasm no matter what I had to do to get it.

*****

These Slave Veterinary students might not know how to care for ponies, but they certainly knew how to manipulate their sexual desires. In mid-afternoon, Charlene and I found ourselves bent over narrow tables, facing a small crowd at the main part of the booth. The students had removed the bits from our mouths and given us some water to drink, but our forearms were still bound behind us and we were securely tied to the tables.

Abby Rider, whose father had "borrowed" the pony team for the day, announced a demonstration on how to "motivate" ponies. First, she put on a clean pair of gloves and extracted Charlene's plug for what must have been the 70th time that day. Then Abby spread a thin layer of concentrated ginger paste and other ingredients around the narrow neck of the butt plug, at the point where the young woman's sphincter would tighten down to hold it in place. As the student explained what she was doing in a thick southern accent, I was horrified and Charlene began whinnying and bucking in a vain effort to get free from her bonds. As a former pony trainer, she had witnessed--and laughed at--plenty of sluts (including me) getting "gingered" in this way, watching as we bucked and whinnied and ran with frantic haste in a vain effort to escape the pain. Every time that plug shifted inside me or I tightened my rear end, the ginger paste came into contact with a new part of my colon causing renewed agony. Charlene and her colleagues had forced me to trot faster in wind sprints than ever before or since before they would take the plug out and flush my bowels. Even after that enema, the burning sensation remained for hours.

Not for the first time that day, I was torn between sympathy for Charlene's plight and a sense of "serves her right." I felt more than a little satisfaction that the arrogant bitch slave trainer was now experiencing the torments she had so gleefully inflicted on others. I guess I'm not a nice person, because the latter emotion won out, tinged with a little self-righteousness because I had NEVER allowed gingering with MY herd. After frantic wriggling and whinnying, Charlene certainly put in a stellar performance in worshipping the pricks of several spectators, but it was yet another example of indifference to the suffering of slaves.

As Charlene finished the third blowjob she needed to earn an enema, I became apprehensive about how Abby Rider would use ME to demonstrate motivation. Turns out it was both easier and more insidious. In effect, Abby was using the same psychological approach that I applied to MY ponies, only this time I was the recipient. She may not have known for certain how her father had used me, but she had to realize that I was in a sub haze after hours of tease-and-deny while visitors rubbed vibrators on my clit in order to assist in inserting my ponytail plug.

She gave the spectators a bunch of mumbo-jumbo that, in essence, argued that it was kinder and more efficient to obtain obedience by keeping the pony so horny that she would do ANYTHING to obtain an actual climax. Abby used the sensor package in my butt plug, projected on a plasma screen, to show that all my vital signs were already elevated. Then she used yet another of those damn finger vibrators to bring my clit (and my arousal) to a peak and told me that if I wanted a real orgasm I would have to bring three different male spectators to shoot (down my throat or on my face) in under ten minutes.

I immediately devoured the first cock offered to me; the only other time I could remember being so frantic was when, on the morning after I had been branded, I had to satisfy a slave wrangler with my mouth before he would take me to a pee grate! I was vaguely aware of a crowd of people jeering at how incredibly submissive and slutty the red-haired pony was, eagerly licking, tonguing, and bogarting strange dick--some of it not too clean--to reach my goal. Halfway through, I realized that my second customer was actually someone I had known and dated in college--I can guarantee that neither I nor any other coed ever worshipped him in such a fervent, erotic manner. Thank heavens he couldn't recognize me in my safety helmet, because at that moment I would have abased myself in any way necessary to reach the goal of bringing all three guys off in ten minutes.

I did it in under eight. After that, mercifully, Kathy used TWO vibrators, one on my clit and one on my nipples, to bring me off, all the time teasing me about what an obedient, slutty little bimbo bitch of a cock whore I was. Damn, I needed that orgasm, and at that moment I was so far into sub space that I actually felt pleased to be "praised" with all those nasty words by a condescending woman in her early 20s. Bliss, both mental and physical. The crowd was dispersing and I was slowly coming down from my high when Kathy released me from the table and told me to stand at "Present" beside it. Just then I became aware of an alarming conversation between Abby Rider and my third oral customer:

"This one for sale?" the tweedy gentleman asked, casually finger-fucking me as he chatted up Abby.

As a pony rancher's daughter, Abby automatically fell into bargaining mode. "Might be," she remarked. "What's ya' offerin?"

My already fatigued mind went into overtime. You see, in Texas, slaves are like guns--lots of them are bought, sold, or traded on a handshake without any record of the transaction, let alone a proper background check! My ranch never did business that way because I wanted my records straight when I sold a girl, but other people were a lot less finicky. I suddenly realized that I hadn't heard what Hailie had told Abby when I was delivered that morning. Hailie was SUPPOSED to say that I wasn't for sale, but whatever she HAD said didn't help me now. If this 22-year-old girl wanted to sell my pony ass to the strange old coot in a suit, Ginger and Lois would disappear without a trace!

"Do you have a price in mind?" the old man countered.

"Sure do," Abby drawled. She smiled, and the braces on her teeth flashed in the overhead lights (who has braces in graduate school? My mind whined helplessly.) Abby was short and looked young, but I sensed the well-dressed gentleman was fully willing to take advantage of her inexperience if he could.

"I assume you have the authority to sell her?" the man asked, pressing.

"Sure do," Abby replied. I wasn't sure if Abby was bluffing, or if some dreadful miscommunication had taken place. I instinctively tried to speak and back away from the man whose hand was on my cunt, but these were useless gestures that came out as a whinny and a sad little shuffle.

"Steady, girl," Abby said, stroking the side of my face and feeding me a sugar cube. Despite the horror of the situation, I was so hungry that I gobbled the sugar cube down. It was delicious.

"She's a mighty fine runner," Abby said, tapping my legs with the dressage whip, "and young enough to be bred," she continued, tapping my tummy. "Get a bunch of foals out 'er. Plus she's slave hot, but I guess yer hand is tellin' ya that."

"I was going to use her for a fox hunt," the man replied, continuing to stroke my wet sex. "She's shaved, but I assume she would have a natural fire crotch, if you let her fleece grow back?"

At this unwelcome revelation my pulse quickened, and my nostrils flared as I breathed faster. I was horrified, but excited as well. The casual nature of their conversation was arousing, even if the prospect of being sold--not to mention hunted and mounted by dogs--terrified me. But this was my fantasy; I was being bargained over like livestock at a 4H show, with a girlish young woman holding my reins and my mind still partially lost in slave haze. Damn his fingers!

"Sure would," Abby replied. "Look at that red hair. Oh, she'll make a fine fox!"

"Has she ever been hunted?"

"Not that I know of," Abby said. "But she'll learn fast enough, with a pack of hounds chasing her down," she added, laughing as she love-tapped my bottom with the whip. "And if you want to put your brand on her right ass cheek to match the one she already has on her left, we've got the tools right here. So what's yer offer? Can we do business, or are ya'll just here to wet yer hand?"

My nostrils flared as I struggled to breathe. Mistake or not, livestock sales were handshake deals, and difficult to even trace, let alone undo. My fate was now in the hands of a freckled, 22-year-old girl in pigtails who still had braces on her teeth. Now I knew what it was like to be a pony girl, unable to even protest as strangers disposed of my body and my entire life.

*****

And then, thank heavens, I heard a familiar voice.

"Excuse me for interrupting, sir, but this filly belongs to the Spinning Wheel Ranch, and I know for a fact that the owner of that ranch is NOT willing to sell her at this time. What are you playing at, Abby Rider? I know your Daddy taught you better than that." As the man reluctantly withdrew his fingers, I saw Richard Jameson standing beside him, looking annoyed. Annoyed at me, I might add.