Breeding the Pony Girl Pt. 03

"I'll keep you in mind, sir." Both Mary and I remained frozen in our submissive positions as we heard the guy walk away. Under her breath, Mary said "Bill, you SOB. That was taking realism too far. When we get done with this trip . . ."

He cut her off. "You'll do what? Chew me out and make me sleep in the couch? Mary, you should be happy I maintained your cover, instead of telling him you were my wife who liked to play slave girl and was here to have her ass branded. And you ended up not having to suck him, right? I'm trying to help you two carry out your crazy plan, so cut me some slack. Would you rather I tell the Longhorn boys to devox you so you don't give yourself away? Or should I just take you home the way you're dressed now and show everyone at the ranch?"

Still on her knees, Mary swallowed, and regained her composure. "You're right, 'Master.' Thank you for correcting me and protecting me."

"Glad we've settled who's in charge here, darlin'. I'm on your side, remember? I love you; now, Stand and heel." And he resumed his brisk walk towards the main entrance.

*****

My sense of powerlessness only increased when we arrived at a registration podium; this time Bill ordered BOTH of his "sluts" to kneel. It seems like a small thing, but it certainly got my attention. Pony girls don't usually kneel because of all the tack they wear--they may get bent over a fence railing or a mounting platform to be screwed or spanked, but that's all. By contrast, being on my knees, spread wide with wrists bound while I literally LOOKED UP at the free people who controlled my body, was a real eye-opener. It's not just that my mouth was at a convenient level to lick their cocks or pussies; I had been reduced to the level of a child or small animal, cringing and physically subservient to my masters and mistresses. Both Mary and I were already turned on as we walked across the parking lot and got felt up by a complete stranger. Now, however, my posture and point of view reinforced my complete domination by Bill and the Longhorn wranglers. I'm a tall woman, 5 foot 10 to begin with and usually wear heeled riding boots. At that moment, my head was suddenly about 3 feet off the ground and I was looking up at a group of people each of whom was well over 6 feet tall--and looked even taller from my viewpoint! I don't think I've ever felt more intimidated in my life.

Even the female in the group was powerful. The woman behind the podium wore combat boots and a belt hung with an electric cattle prod, control for electric shock collars, whip, radio, and handcuffs, but even without those advantages over my kneeling, bound nudity, she was big. Not fat at all, but HUGE--tall, well-muscled, and endowed with breasts that made my B/C cups look prepubescent. She must have been 4 inches taller and 50 pounds heavier than me. She also radiated a self-confidence that made her both imposing and attractive in her own right. Her Longhorn polo shirt, stretched tight over her bulging chest, carried a nametag that read "Florence."

In response to Florence's rumbling, slightly-amused inquiry, Bill laconically announced that he had a reservation to kennel "two whores" overnight and have them branded using the iron he had brought from Spinning Wheel Ranch. He gave her a plausible explanation of why we were here, some combination of the ranch's smith having a communicable disease and the management not wanting these "old biddies" on view this weekend anyway, when potential investors were visiting and expected to see nothing but cute little pony girls and boys. He produced our kennelling papers, including his limited powers of attorney over our bodies. Florence read them carefully, asking for clarification that they did NOT authorize sale, but did absolve the Longhorn from any responsibility if the wranglers decided to use us intimately. She didn't even hesitate or blush when she mentioned that clause. Stated baldly like that, I really felt like a piece of slave meat at the mercy of these muscular men and women. Florence seemed like a smart person who realized that we were legally free, although she never articulated that idea to the other wranglers (I found out later that Jesse Foster had given her instructions to conceal our identities as much as possible, which wasn't much!)

Once she accepted those powers of attorney and gave Bill the tickets for us, we were under kennel rules anyway. Heavy leather cuffs replaced the zip ties on our wrists, and even heavier shock collars, each with two electrical contacts digging into our necks, replaced the simpler collars we had worn in the door. Now we were indistinguishable from genuine slaves, and just as defenseless. Florence went through the familiar spiel to newly-arrived slaves. You've all read such warnings before, but one key phrase really made my mind cringe now that I was in their power: "all Longhorn employees are authorized to use any means deemed necessary to compel you to comply with all orders given to you, and those means include BUT ARE NOT LIMITED TO electrical shock and whipping."

It was equally daunting to realize that we had no speaking parts in this drama, other than "Yes, Mistress." After charging Bill for the kennelling and branding fees, like a good saleswoman Florence tried to sell him some extras.

"Since they'll already be restrained and sedated for branding, how about we pierce their nipples at the same time? Only $20 per boob as an add-on to the branding, and we throw in the disinfectant and bandages to be used in wound care afterwards."

I could see Bill was trying very hard not to laugh, looking at his wife and me on our knees as he added to our discomfort. "Yeah, why not? Most of the younger sluts at the Spinning Wheel have nipple rings already, so the old gals must feel left out. Let's pierce all four of these nipples and install titanium barbells--bill it to the same account as the rest of their accommodation." I almost bit my tongue at the thought that my cook had just, graciously, decided that I--as the ranch owner--would have to pay for my own nipple piercings!

Sensing she was on a roll, Florence went in for the kill. "For the low cost of $10 each, we'll give you a framed photograph of the slut's glowing ass right after the brand is applied. Of course, you'll miss the fun of seeing how they squirm and cry when they get branded. Usually, they climax and lose control of their bladders at the same time! For another $25 each, we'll record the entire branding and piercing process, both picture and sound, and give you a labelled disk of the show."

By this time, Bill was grinning even wider and looking with unholy glee at his wife's worried face. I'm sure he was imagining hanging a photo of her branded butt on the wall of their bedroom. "By all means--both photos and disks, and bill them to the ranch's account, too." At the time, I mentally promised myself to audit my head cook's food expenditures to recover some of these costs. On reflection, though, I realized that Bill was just playing his part--if he had hesitated about any of these additional embarrassments, someone might have wondered why he was so solicitous of a couple of over-the-hill sluts. Mary and especially I were responsible for putting ourselves into jeopardy like this, and I should have expected that going to the Longhorn would set a new high, or should I say low, in humiliation and subjugation. And that (in addition to a good fucking) was why I had agreed to this, anyway. But, it suddenly felt very real, even menacing, and became even more so when Bill traded Florence the branding head for the tickets and receipts. Then he left, and I imagine Mary felt just as abandoned as did I.

*****

After that, though, things started to look up, at least as far as indulging my submissive sex drive. I mentally blessed Jesse, because he seemed to have arranged that Mary and I would be in the care of two muscular slave wranglers straight out of central casting! Both were even larger than Florence, which is saying something, but beyond having handsome faces they were very different from each other. The guy assigned to process me was Dave, a massive African-American. He smiled casually, and in a calm, quiet voice ordered me to stand and walk through the swinging doors behind the podium. He guided me along with one large hand cupping my ass cheek, his blunt fingers gently goosing me well into my butt crack. As I tried to cooperate as best I could, out of the corner of my eye I saw another wrangler, whose nametag read "Josh"--6 feet, 4 inches, blond hair and blue eyes on top of a body-builder's torso--herding Mary in the same manner. I felt completely cowed, but my tummy suddenly started hoping that these two guys would find time to use us. Thoroughly.

First, however, we had apparently arrived in time for the last round of block move (Slave Yoga) training for the day. Master Dave and Master Josh walked us over to a battered wooden practice platform containing 5 other naked young women, released our wrists, and slapped our butts sharply to encourage us to mount the platform and join the class.

An unusual slave wrangler began snapping out commands and criticisms in rapid fire. She looked to be about my age, with brown hair, generous boobs, and a cute face that was vaguely familiar. She was dressed like the other wranglers, including the boots and menacing array of weapons, but she was far smaller than any other wrangler we had seen, in fact shorter than I was. Then I noticed a nametag that read "Shirley," and my mind suddenly remembered where I had seen her--this was Jesse Foster's wife, whom I'd met at various social functions! That marriage explained why she would be able to work as a slave handler despite her diminutive size. Crap--if I could recognize her dressed up in wrangler garb, would she recognize the lewdly-gyrating redheaded slave in front of her as the wealthy owner of the Spinning Wheel Pony Ranch? If so, she gave no sign of recognition.

For the next half hour, that worry took a back seat to the humiliation of shouting slave mantras ("Please buy me and use me, Master;" "I long for you to ram your monster cock up my ass," "Three holes--no waiting," and so on) while I stretched and shook my naked body along with the other slaves. I was grateful that Mary and I had practiced our block moves/slave yoga before we surrendered ourselves for kennelling, so we didn't look as clumsy as the other girls.

In fact, Shirley used us to shame the other slaves. "Look at these mature ladies [indicating Mary and me]--if they had been sexually active at a VERY young age, they might have been your mothers. Yet both of them know their block moves and look sexier than some of you. Get the lead out of your butts, kids--you want every potential owner, male or female, to covet your body, and right now any owner would rather take these two gals instead of you."

Eventually, the pint-sized wrangler called a break and gave us the sexiest motivational speech I've ever heard. I can't recall all of her words, but the basic message was, whether you're just here for slave grading or about to be sold to a stranger, you need to convince everyone who sees you that he or she wants to own your body. Free or slave, the more attractive and desirable you are, the better your treatment in life. It was a cynical ploy designed to maximize profits for the Longhorn and slave merchants, but I know that Mary and I both got turned on!

When she released the class, Masters Dave and Josh resumed control of us. Now their methodology became apparent, as they took photographs of us while we were still aroused from the class. [When this whole adventure was over, I called up the resulting images on the National Slavery Registry, but I wished I hadn't looked. Whether standing in Present mode, kneeling with one hand on my breast and the other opening my labia, or a rear view with my head on the floor and my hands spreading my butt cheeks--in every pose, I was obviously aroused and exposed, with a distracted expression appropriate for the most braindead of bimbos. Thank heavens only licensed slave merchants had access to the registry, but even that access meant that my peers and competitors could talk to me professionally and then go back to their offices and jerk off to my photographs.]

(Mary Jacobs' viewpoint)

Up until that point, our processing had resembled that given to young women being slave graded--a little humiliation, a stretch of block moves to get us worked up, and then photographs while we were aroused. I did notice that the handlers were a lot more "handsy" than I had expected, grabbing and stroking my aging breasts, bottom, and loins for any and no reason. I was surprised by how horny all this made me feel, and I sure hoped no one in the slaving industry looked me up on the Registry, but this trip had gone pretty much the way I expected.

Until the photographs were done, and then things became a lot cruder. Leaving my hands unrestrained, Josh led me over to a computer desk, obviously intending to upload the obscene photos he had just taken. Only, when we got there, he pointed to the kneehole on the desk and told me to crawl into it, butt first. Not wanting him to shock me, I complied, and when I looked up at him from my crouch, he was calmly unzipping his jeans and pulling out an impressive cock and set of balls. Then he sat down, reached over my head towards the keyboard, and told me to "get to work."

Jesse Foster had warned me that oral sex was almost inevitable while I was kennelled here, so the fact of fellating this guy wasn't any surprise. Yet, this was an incredibly casual approach, where the slave was just a minor entertainment while the wrangler went on with his work. I didn't mind giving my husband a blowjob--I'd done it just two nights earlier, when we were playing slave girl and master--but it had been 25 years since I'd sucked off another guy, and even then I had done it as a great concession for which he thanked me profusely. In a way, being treated as if I were a piece of chewing gum to amuse Josh made it even more humiliating. Again, though, I had no choice. Besides, when would I ever again get to play with a young man like this? So I reached out, one hand wrapping around the base of his substantial prick while the other began to gently massage his scrotum. I licked around the bulbous head of that prodigious proboscis, but when his hips moved forward it was obvious that he expected more. I took a deep breath and tried to fit as much as possible into my mouth. When that head struck the back of my mouth, I breathed again through my nose, tried to line my throat up with his shaft, and pushed him in even deeper. I bobbed back and forth rapidly while stroking his balls. It must have worked because his invader became even larger and more rigid. I just hoped he came before I ran out of air.

(Lois Spalding's perspective)

Yum! I heard gagging sources from Mary at the next desk. In the back of my mind, I felt guilty that my best friend and stable manager was being used just to satisfy my own sex drives, but the thrill was so great that she slipped my mind. Perhaps I was the female equivalent of the male cliché about "a stiff dick has no conscience"--maybe "I have no conscience when I see a stiff dick?"

I mean, this face-fucking, treating me as a subjugated toy, was the cherry on the top of my adventure sundae. The first recipient of a blowjob from me had been an African American friend--we went to the prom together soon after both turning 18. I'd swallowed a fair number of dicks since then and usually enjoyed it, if only because it made me feel desirable when the guy inflated in response to my sucking. Until that day at the Longhorn, however, I had not believed that African-American males were particularly more endowed than Caucasians. But, OMG (as the kids would say), Dave seemed to be as big as my champion pony stallion Stud, and THAT made this experience phenomenal for me. Naked, collared, on my knees under a desk, being forced to give head to a huge shaft that smelled clean and tasted sweet--what more could I want? He was kind enough to pull back once in a while so I could breathe, but otherwise just treated me as if I were his private glory hole while he worked on the computer.

Then I remembered something--if he was uploading my new bimbo portraits into the file attached to my Slave Identification Number, Dave was also looking at my real name and status--I was only listed in the National Registry because I had been slave graded a decade before. I blushed with humiliation at that thought, but at the same time the submissive in me got even MORE turned on, assuming that were possible. Now Dave must know that I had willingly given my body to the Longhorn to play with! I redoubled my attentions, slobbering all over his man-meat until he suddenly went rigid and blasted repeated shots of cum down my throat. He was already so deep that I couldn't have held his jism on my tongue if I tried--it all went down my esophagus with almost no swallowing.

There I was, completely at his mercy and with a belly full of his sperm. He knew who and what I was, yet never betrayed it in the manner he treated me. Not that he was respectful, kind or anything like that, but neither did he jeer at or belittle me. He just zipped himself up, murmured "Good work, slut," had me crawl out and stand. As he cuffed me again, I saw Josh doing the same thing to Mary, who had a contented expression as well as some semi-transparent white stuff on her face. Looks like the two "old biddies" from the Spinning Wheel were both enjoying themselves, so I didn't have to feel so guilty about dragging Mary along. Then I remembered that we still had to face nipple piercing, butt branding, and whatever other tricks Jesse Foster might have planned to ensure that his free citizen guests, collared and kennelled at their own request, got an "authentic" experience of slavery . . .

(To be continued)