Breeding the Pony Girl Pt. 01

"Can't we use a smaller plug, though?" She asked, rather plaintively.

"We could," I smirked, "But we need to use the standard sensor package so that anyone who looks at the screen will see your orgasms, just like any other pony girl on the stand." She flushed again at the realization that I was going to track her "performance" just as we had both observed the sexual responses of all the real slave girls on the ranch.

"Besides," I added in a slightly-evil voice, "I want to preserve this experience, so I can give you a DVD with the film and sensor data of your 'date' with Stud! That way you can review it whenever you get lonely."

Lois was far more startled, and then burst out laughing when I extracted my final gift to her--a John Holmes Special, extra-large vibrating dildo with the batteries already installed.

"Don't laugh, honey," I admonished her, snickering despite myself. "Your sexual history is none of my business, but I'd be willing to bet that NEITHER of us has ever had to accommodate a bat as large as our Stud swings. You need to try this thing out for the next few nights to be sure that you'll stretch enough. Otherwise, your grand sexual fantasy will turn into an emergency visit to a gynecologist--and I KNOW you don't want to explain to a doctor that you let one of your slaves tear you up down there."

*****

(Lois Spalding's perspective)

If you've read Mary's version of the situation, you may have concluded that I'm either crazy or a closet submissive. If you'd ask me at the time, I might have confessed to both.

Don't get me wrong--I have always enjoyed sex, and could sometimes get off on having a strong guy pin me down while he invaded my body, but I usually preferred making slow, gentle love as equals. This time seemed different. I knew I was horny for lack of sex. I also knew I wanted that magnificently-muscled slave stallion to screw my brains out, and Mary was probably correct that the helplessness and fear of discovery added spice to my dream of playing pony girl with him. This was an itch I had to scratch, and until I took the risk and had the experience, I wasn't sure whether submission and slavery were a passing fancy or an enduring part of my sexuality.

Because "Ginger" was on the schedule for intermittent reinforcement, the ranch stock records had to have an entry for such a pony girl, in this case a girl about four years younger than me who had self-indentured herself to earn money for college. (The fact that she was a voluntary indenture would help explain the lack of brands on her backside.) Like most other Texans, I had been slave graded when I turned 18, so the Ginger file reflected the slave ID number tattooed inside my lower lip. It occurred to me that, without Mary vouching for me, I might have trouble proving I was NOT a slave, although the National Slave Registry still had the correct identity under that ID number. We also talked through the procedure for my breeding, as she insisted on calling it--I won't bore you with those details now, since I'm about to describe what actually happened.

About six a.m. on the appointed Sunday, I let Mary in when she tapped quietly on my door. I hadn't slept very well the previous night, torn between sexual excitement and fear of discovery and humiliation. Once I let my co-conspirator in, however, it seemed impossibly craven to back out. I was committed--or should I say, I NEEDED to be committed... to a mental institution.

I'd been up for hours, giving myself repeated douches and enemas and then applying fuck-me-red lipstick, far brighter than my usual neutral shade. The previous day, I had gone to town for a makeover, shortening my hair by several inches and painfully losing every hair on my body below the eyebrows. I wanted to look like a typical, slutty pony girl rather than the staid Ms. Spalding. When Mary decided to begin her control by abruptly telling me to strip, I dropped my robe, interlocked my fingers behind my head, and stood stock still, every inch a slave slut. I think she was surprised at my prompt compliance, but after a moment resumed her commands.

"OK, girl; I'm glad to see we won't need to do any shaving this morning. Time to get you tacked up, starting with your boots."

It felt vulnerable to be naked in front of her, but given what I was about to do, it was too late for modesty. I pulled on and laced up the bizarre footwear used for pony girls--a sort of high-heeled knee-length boot where the sole of each boot ended in a small horseshoe. In observing dozens of pony girls being mounted sexually, I had realized that the wide, high heeled part not only made the slave's legs look sexier but raised her rump to assist the pony boy taking her from behind. Had I not already practiced wearing these monsters, I would have fallen over; thank heavens the leather provided firm ankle support.

Next, Mary--I guess I'd better start thinking of her as Mistress Mary--laced me into a very tight leather bustier that left my belly and groin, as well as the tops of my breasts, fully exposed while compressing and pushing up on the bottom side of each orb. I could barely breathe when she finished, but at least (I wryly observed to her) the thing made my cleavage appear to be in the range of DD to GG, so that no one would identify the result as belonging to Ms. Spalding, whose cup size was somewhere between a B and a C.

"Less talking, babe; pony girls don't talk at all. Hands behind your back, one hand on the opposite elbow." My employee and soon-to-be-mistress directed. Once my hands were in place, she strapped a leather tube around my forearms, leaving me well and truly helpless.

"Sit," Mary pointed at a straight chair. We were both rather tall for women, but with the added elevation from my boots, she needed me to sit down so that she could install my headdress. Looking in the mirror, I saw her deftly sweep my auburn hair up into the crested comb that gave the impression of a horse's mane. While she was at it, she slipped the fake sleeping mask over my eyes. It took me a moment to adjust to the fuzzy image, but then I saw myself in the mirror--blindfolded, hair upswept, and enough boob on view to feed an entire nursery. Surely, I thought, no one would recognize this brazen sex object as the conservatively-dressed, frigid owner of the Spinning Wheel Ranch.

Then I saw her carrying an electronic choker collar, obviously about to install it. Once on my neck, it would convert any attempt at human speech into horse sounds, depriving me of all communication after she had already eliminated my modesty and freedom of movement.

"Is that really necessary?" I asked, meekly.

She shrugged. "It's up to you. Almost all of our ponies wear these collars 17 or more hours a day, so if you appear without one it will draw a lot of unwanted attention. Besides, imagine that you forget what you're doing and talk in your normal voice--or even cry out in the throes of passion. You have a very distinctive, commanding tone of voice. Everyone would instantly recognize that the slutty pony on the mounting frame was actually their uptight boss--do you want to risk that?"

"I guess not," I replied, and meekly raised my head to allow the installation. I reflected that one of the first positions every slave had to learn was "Collar," and at that moment I was de facto a slave.

Once I was effectively silenced, Mary became even more demanding, instructing me to stand and "Display." Hampered by my boots and the arm sleeve, I staggered to my feet, turned to face away from her, spread my legs to shoulder width, and bent my head down between my legs, exposing myself thoroughly with my butt being the highest part of my body.

"Any slave on the first day would be expected to bend farther than that," she commented, dryly, so I attempted to bend even farther, barely able to breathe in the tight corset. She appeared to be satisfied with my posture, as I heard the "snap" of a latex glove being stretched over her arm. Here it comes, I thought.

A few seconds later, the matronly woman who had never before seen me naked thrust two fingers, covered with KY, between my labia and lubricated me thoroughly--although I was embarrassed to realize that I was already rather damp down there. Then, I felt a lubricated finger push firmly past my sphincter.

"Come on, darling, you know better than to tense up like that. Just pretend my fingers are Stud's cock, and let me in." Ha, ha. I thought. Having that stallion in my birth canal would be a dream come true, but having him up my butt could be extremely painful, maybe even dangerous. Still, I made the effort to relax and even pretended to defecate, allowing Mary to push one, two, and eventually three fingers of goo into me. They were followed by the substantial bulk of my tail plug. I heard a second snap as she discarded the glove, and so I stood up again.

"Did I tell you to change position?" She asked, with an edge in her voice. "Christ, you're going to give yourself away if you can't obey orders. Get back into Display."

I bent over again, and was shocked to feel two quick whacks of her riding crop across my tightly-stretched buttocks. I immediately saw red, and mentally promised myself to chew her out when this was over. Then she told me to stand back up, and grabbed my collar to bring my face to within about a foot of her.

"Don't tell me, the all-powerful queen of the ranch is pissed that I dared to give her two little love taps on her backside. If you're worried about pain, wait until I have to lead you by the nose twitch! You should be thanking me, Lois. Not only does every pony around here have a few marks on her ass, but you need to get over yourself if you don't want anyone to know who you are. For the next..." She looked at her watch. "Ninety minutes or so, you're not Mizz Spalding, wealthy rancher. You're Pony Girl Ginger, the newest and least significant piece of slave meat on this spread. (And by the way, 'spread' refers to both the land and the position pony girls find themselves in!) Do only what you're told and do exactly what you're told, got it? And as I said before, you're going to have to submit to every person you meet. I know that your dream is to suck on Stud's dick before he mounts you. But don't forget that you might have to service another ranch hand who encounters you."

I'm sure my face betrayed the shock of that idea, so Mary continued more gently. "Come on, darling, I'm doing this to make you happy. I will do everything I can to protect you and your identity, but stuff happens around here, and you know it. It's Sunday, so most of the senior ranch hands are off today. And the owner of this fine establishment is nowhere to be seen, so the rules about using the livestock may be a little bit more relaxed than usual. That means that I MIGHT have to leave you to handle some situation. During that time, you need to be the most subservient little pony slut that ever came through the gates. And that means smiling as you 'put out' for every free person who wants to use you, agreed?"

I tossed my head and stomped my right hoof, the pony gesture for yes. She smiled. "One last decoration." Ouch! I'd forgotten the bell clamps, which she installed on both nipples at once. Thank heavens she adjusted the tension so the clamps were loose; it hurt enough as it was.

Just as I caught my breath from this shock, I heard Mary's slightly-mocking voice: "OK, then, Ginger--let's go get you laid, shall we?"

(To be continued)