Rhonda's Life After Capture

Six months ago, Rhonda had been a thirty-four-year-old waitress in the mess on an Altruvian space station and trading post. Her job paid well, if only on account of the value of the station and its distance from any well-settled territory. Three months ago, she was still working in the mess, but she wore a navy uniform and carried a pistol. The station had been mobilized for war -- although everyone said the enemy were sure to lose, the Canberrans had taken to raiding even merely economic Altruvian assets. Rhonda was fit for her age, brunette, narrow-waisted, with a generous bust and wide hips. Today, Rhonda was a ponygirl slave in the stable of a Canberran lord whose starships had made a daring raid on her station in the darkest days of the war, shortly before Canberra brought the conflict to its ignominious and untimely end.

Rhonda was standing in the cobblestone courtyard at the center of the lord's expansive stables. Her wrists were bound tightly together behind her back; the leather cuffs were clipped both to the tight metal band that sat just above her waist, and to the metal ring that joined the two parts of her crotch-strap. Whenever she leaned forward, her wrists shifted the strap upward, making it dig uncomfortably into her pussy. She was leaning forward now.

She could hear the swift movements of her master behind her. "Bitch -- present," he said -- this meant she was to spread her legs and bend over, allowing him to easily inspect her crotch-strap from behind. As she stood in that very uncomfortable position, he tightened the straps that held her gear together behind her back, making the strap dig into her even more uncomfortably. She stumbled slightly, trying to keep her balance on the high hoof-boots.

Her day, which she understood was meant as training, was difficult -- the lord whipped her often and hard as he sat in the dogcart behind her, which for some reason was much more heavy than it had ever been before. Rhonda's crotch-strap chafed and the buttplug attached to her tail felt like it would pop out if only it were not held in so tightly by the outfit she was forced to wear. She clamped down on her bit as she put her weight into hauling the cart.

Her training continued at a high intensity for a week, and then she was rested for three days straight, to her relief. On the fourth day, she found out why -- she was stuffed in a wire mesh cage barely big enough for her and put in the dark hold of a hovercraft, and when the door of the transport finally opened, she was at a country racetrack. The sun was out and the day was heating up, but the racetrack had been newly soaked with water and the dirt was loamy and wet. Some hills covered with sparse Canberran shrubs were set behind the track; and in front of it, there stood a set of tasteful white pavilions, adorned with flags, and the Canberran gentry were readying themselves for a day of drinking lemonade and watching their buxom ponygirls toil and sweat.

As Rhonda backed between the whippletrees, she bent forward as she had been trained, and the strap dug into her pussy and chafed as always. Today, her master tightened it harder than he ever had before, and she whinnied, stuck her ass out and prepared it for his whip as she felt him climbing up into the carriage. Girls to her left and right, probably recently acquired Altruvian spoils too, bent over in the same humiliating position, gesturing with their asses as if to invite their owners' lashes on their soft skin. Rhonda scraped a hoof against the ground, readying herself for the race.

When it was over, her ass and thighs were striped with the marks of her master's whip. Her thigh-high boots and bare thighs were splattered with mud from the dampened track. Her pussy was scarlet and sore from the chafing strap. She had not won, but she had outpaced a few of the girls.

She thought she might be given a rest, and her wiplash marks treated, but her master decided otherwise. He took a piece of cord with a loop in one end, slid it over her head, and yanked downward sharply. He tied it to the iron ring in her pussy so that she was forced to walk about in a bent-over position, wobbling on her hips and with her ass sticking out. He led her on a leash as he talked to his friends and colleagues at a cocktail party under the largest pavilion. She was oft-admired, but instead of any tender touch she was apt to receive a smack on the rump.