Breeding the Pony Girl Pt. 04

As I lay there, gasping like a beached whale, I heard Mary cry out twice, indicating that she, too, had gotten a needle in her boobs. And then, astonishingly enough, one of the guys remounted my pussy and resumed pounding away as if nothing had happened. A moment later, someone restored my neck support so that I could see down the length of my body, where I saw Josh vigorously pumping between my spread thighs. Looking to my side, I saw Dave servicing Mary just as strenuously. At the time, I thought they both had incredible staying power to continue fucking us for so long--or had they taken little blue pills? Just as at that moment, Josh finally unloaded, collapsing on top of me while he regained his breath. Soon thereafter, Dave also appeared to give out, lying down while gently rubbing the base of Mary's tits, well away from her shiny new barbells.

Once the two wranglers dragged themselves off our helpless bodies, the head smith began talking again. "You see, MY relaxation system works almost as well as the vet's. Unfortunately, it would be too dangerous to try to distract you with sex during the branding--don't want any dicks burned or bit off! By now, though, I hope that the vet's medicine has spread through you while you still have some endorphins left from fucking. We'll try to be quick, but since you're both getting the same brand, we'll have to pause to re-heat it between applications. Do your best to stay relaxed."

As he finished speaking, a felt a whirring sound and felt the entire frame flipping me over so that I hung face down against the straps. Now I understood why there had been no support under my buttocks--I was completely exposed down there while being held immobile. A water bottle was held to my lips while I drank deeply.

As I watched, the smith's assistant pushed a large box filled with kitty litter underneath my frame, positioning it directly under my loins, and then placed a similar box underneath Mary. My mind flashed back to when Mary's husband had checked us into the Longhorn that afternoon. The saleswoman had persuaded him to buy audio and video tapes of our branding, saying that when slaves were branded, "Usually, they climax and lose control of their bladders at the same time!"

At that moment, I felt like I lacked the energy to orgasm ever again, and the thought of literally pissing myself was about as un-sexy as I could imagine. Being mounted while I pretended to be a pony girl? Great. Surrendering myself at a slave market where the hunky handlers used me as a sex toy? Fan-fucking-tastic. But losing control of my bowels while I suffered enormous pain? I'm a submissive, not a masochist--get me outta here! Of course, I wasn't going anywhere; I had signed away my freedom on a power of attorney and could not move an inch to avoid the brand that I had foolishly decided I needed to pretend to be a "real" pony girl. Yeah, pretend slavery just got incredibly real.

I was worried about the pain, but even more about the loss of dignity. I know that's a weird thing to say after an afternoon of humiliating slavery and sexual use. But, if I can get Freudian for a moment, I think most people are so deeply implanted by potty training that the idea of uncontrolled urination, pissing my panties if you will, carries a huge baggage of shame with it. What would my mom say?

Not only that, but as I waited for my fate, I began to think about the real significance of branding. At the time when all this occurred, the majority of adults over the age of 18 had Slave Identification Numbers tattooed on the inside of their lips, usually not because they were actual slaves but rather because they had been graded as collateral for loans. If anything, one could argue that the SIN gave some limited form of protection from illegal enslavement, because the government periodically checked the inventory of slaves against the National Registry.

But, having a brand on your butt was different--not only was it more painful than a tattoo, but it proclaimed to anyone who saw it that you either had been, were, or for some reason had thought about being enslaved. Rationally, I didn't REALLY want to be a slave, but my submissive games had caused me to at least contemplate the possibility, the fantasy, of temporarily giving up my freedom. That surrender was most of the sexual thrill that I had experienced being kennelled at the Longhorn, and it had made some rather wild sex even more exciting. Even Mary, whom I had dragged into my nonsense, had got off on being used that way.

But now we had to pay for it, and our brands would be permanent proof of our mental enslavement. If there's anything more pathetic than a slave, it must be a person who actually WANTS to be treated as a slave without any coercion, crime or monetary recompense--and I was about to get marked as such a person! I supposed that, if a slave catcher somehow got me naked and collared, he could point to that brand as proof that I wished to be enslaved. [I was relatively safe inside an ethical market like the Longhorn, which kept careful records of its inventory.] Otherwise, the odds that anyone, other than our loved ones, would ever see those brands were rather low, but WE would know. Well, I got my fun so I guess I deserved the punishment, but Mary didn't--I had twisted her arm to go along with my fantasy, and I wasn't even sure why I was so determined to be burned.

While all these thoughts ran through my mind, the preparations continued. The smith and his assistant, bless them, were moving quickly to get it over with. I felt cold alcohol being scrubbed across my left ass cheek while someone offered me a water bottle again. When I saw a thick (fortunately clean) bite-stick in front of my face, I opened my mouth without hesitation and felt it strapped tightly behind my head. It couldn't be long now. Oh, lord, what a stupid @$%&# idea!

I saw the smith, wearing insulated gloves, withdraw the glowing iron, affixed to a long metal pole, from the forge. When he brought it to within a foot of my face, I tried to pull back. My mind told me to close my eyes at the terrible sight, but I was mesmerized. There it was--the glowing outline of a spoked wheel with a wide bar below it to represent the treadle and one rod running from the center of the wheel to the bulbous spindle. At least the damn thing was smaller than their Longhorn brand . . .

"Ready for the ride of your life?" he inquired. "Well, as they say in Hide-n-Seek, ready or not, here I come. You can cum too, if you want to--watch the monitor in front of you."

I had forgotten, until that moment, that thanks to Bill, who had checked us in at the Longhorn, my posterior was being filmed for posterity and I would have to pay for it! I flushed with humiliation but couldn't stop myself from watching the screen as the smith moved between my widespread legs, paused to line up the head with my left buttock, and then pressed it home and held it there for about 15 seconds.

I base that description on what I saw in the video after the fact. At the time, I was too frightened to feel anything except approaching doom. Once the brand met my ass, all I registered was PAIN.

I had a convulsion, but I can't say it was an orgasm--at least not like any orgasm I'd ever had or ever want to have again. Even around the bite stick, I managed to emit an enormous howl that continued for most of a minute. My body struggled violently against the immovable framework and bonds. A strong stream of urine roared out of me into the kitty litter. I guess I should be thankful that I hadn't eaten anything the previous evening, or I would have dropped a load of fecal matter, as well. The pain was enormous, inexpressible. If Mary was correct that branding was no worse than giving birth, I'd have gone out the next day to have my tubes tied!

And then it was over, and the smith's assistant (I assume, because the smith was returning the brand to the forge) was spraying a disinfectant and local anaesthetic all over my--what did the vet call it?--my wound. Over the next minute or so, the pain dropped from excruciating to a deep, throbbing ache. When I looked at the video afterwards, I saw that the assistant had paused to take a still photo of my brand-new, glowing brand before he sprayed me--got to earn that $10 for the market. I wondered, perversely, where I would dare post the photo. Maybe in my office--since it didn't really show my face I could pretend it was just another pony girl getting branded. And in a way it was, only now I was a "real" branded pony girl. Idiot, I thought to myself.

Through the pain, the smith was talking to me, and I tried to concentrate. "By rights, I should make you hump the handle of the iron that branded you." I recalled that the Spinning Wheel Ranch smith had followed the same practice--it had been amusing to watch distressed ponies get themselves off after their branding. "But, in this case, I want to get that brand reheated quickly--it would be too darn cruel to make that other slut [he gestured towards Mary] wait longer than necessary. So, to ensure you get the full experience, I'll have to use the handle from another iron." He sounded almost apologetic, as if he were cheating me of the full experience.

I had thought that pissing myself and howling to the moon while being (voluntarily) branded like a cow was as low as any human being could go. Now, I discovered, the smith had just dug a sub-basement to accommodate my wounded ego's rapid descent! He untied the bite stick, loosened the straps holding my legs, and encouraged me to rub myself on the rough handle that he pressed against my labia and clit. At first, even the tiniest movement only added to my discomfort, but within a minute my natural horniness took over. It began to feel good, and I worked hard trying to get myself off. In less than four minutes (according to the video record), the newly-branded slut pony Ginger (aka ice princess Ms. Spalding) came with an enormous shudder, actually squirting.

"Damn," the smith's assistant commented. "I have to say I'm impressed--not every piece of slave meat can get herself off on her own branding iron; this girl was definitely born to the collar, and it would be cruel to ever set her free." The other guys made similar comments, which as usual arousing conflicting emotions. On the one hand, as I said, humping an iron after being branded only added to the horror and debasement I had experienced, whereas on the other my masters were complimenting my performance as the submissive slut I liked to portray once in a while. I guess my real regret was that Mary had witnessed this shameful display, but after this weekend I was certain she had lost any respect for me.

After the fact, I realized that in a strange way this humping-the-branding-iron trick was really an act of kindness, although I don't know whether it was intentional. It took my mind off the horrible injury my body had suffered and connected that injury to sexual pleasure (Careful, girl--that line of logic leads to masochism.) At least my endorphin level was pumped back up to assist the oxycodone in handling the pain.

(Mary Jacob's perspective)

In my wildest wet dreams, I don't think I ever imagined being the subject of a four-man gangbang while wearing a slave collar and strapped to a branding platform. Since I had no control or responsibility over what happened, I told myself to relax and have fun (and no, I am NOT advocating "when rape is inevitable, lie back and enjoy it." Legally, at least, this was not rape because we had voluntarily accepted slave discipline at the Longhorn, and I had left myself open to such exploitation when I signed up for this crazy weekend.) Again, how often does a 46-year-old woman get her brains fucked out by 4 muscular guys, 3 of them younger and all of them reasonably handsome and clean, all with the tacit permission of her husband? Still, I'm going to try to avoid giving Bill too many details.

If you've read Lois' description of the piercing and branding that followed, there's not much that I can add. I do think I got the short end of the branding iron (and I don't mean on my clit), since I was an unwilling witness to her sufferings and then had to wait another ten minutes or so before I got MY ass permanently embossed with the logo of my ranch. Talk about being loyal to your employer! In the course of my adult life, I've witnessed or participated in the branding of hundreds of slaves, not to mention giving birth to two children on my own. But hearing a good friend getting branded while waiting for MY butt to be fried was a completely different experience.

OK, I was wrong. I'm pretty sure that being branded is significantly MORE painful than giving birth, although obstetricians will tell you that women tend to forget about the birth pain. (If they didn't, the human race would die out. Imagine if men had to bear children.) And giving birth often takes far longer than branding, so maybe it works out. I DO know that I never want to be branded again and can't imagine the guts it takes for slave consorts at places like the Broadstone Academy, who often have to voluntarily accept a second or even third branding. That thing hurt like hell when I first got it and made me uncomfortable for weeks after the fact.

If you're wondering, yes, I did hump the handle of the branding iron, and I did get some pleasure from it. Lois is right that it distracted me and slightly reduced the pain of having my skin permanently charred. While my Longhorn experience confirmed that I get a little thrill from being a helpless slave, I did not orgasm right after being branded--I'm not quite THAT weird. But then, I'm not the horny little slave slut that lives inside my boss!

*****

We spent a very uncomfortable night trying to sleep on cots, with a six-dollar padlock keeping us inside a wire mesh cage at the Longhorn. Again, I had routinely locked slaves into cages and stalls for decades, but it's incredibly different when you're the slave and someone else holds the key. (Lois eventually confessed that she got more than a little thrill out of being locked up like that, but it's not really my thing.)

With our left buttocks throbbing and both boobs stinging, the only possible sleeping position was on our right sides. Even then, it was a choice between being warm under a scratchy blanket that pressed against our bandaged butts or being cold lying without it in the air-conditioned quiet of a slave market at night. It would have been comforting to spoon together, but again our violated breasts were too sensitive. Neither of us slept very much.

In the middle of the night, Lois began a tearful, whispered apology for dragging me into what she herself describes as "my perverted submissive fantasies." I was hurting too much to give her too much consolation, and that's what I told her.

"I hurt too much to forgive you tonight, sweetie. Let's talk about it in a few days when we're both more rational. I DID sign up for this trip voluntarily, after all--you didn't point a gun at me. Provided you won't tell Bill, I'll admit it was kind of fun to have young, hunky guys use me as a sex object; too bad it had to end with the piercings and branding. Promise me one thing, though?"

"Anything, Mary, so long as you don't hate me," came the whispered reply. I knew she meant it, too, because Lois didn't seem to have many friends except me.

"Don't ask me to play slave again. I'll be glad to help you pretend to be Pony Girl Ginger and I'll try to conceal your identity while you get laid in leather, but when you play that game, I want to be on the outside of the cage, wearing clothes, controlling the keys, and sleeping in my own bed. OK?" I said, with a little more urgency than I intended.

"I promise, Mary."

"Good." I grunted. "Now try to sleep--it can't be too long until we have to get up."

*****

It wasn't long, either. As a concession to our body modifications, Josh had told us that in the morning we did not have to kneel on the floor with hands behind our necks while waiting for a wrangler to take care of us. That position would have pressed our brands against our feet, which would be excruciating. Instead, we were to wait on our bunks in the "Slave 4s" position--sort of doggie style with knees and elbows aligned with the edges of the cots. The wrangler did specify that our heads had to be all the way at one end of the cot, an odd idea that naturally made me suspicious.

Turns out my suspicions were correct. Fucking newly-branded and pierced slaves might be against medical rules at the Longhorn, but kneeling as we were, our mouths were readily available to fellate the two strange faces--and dicks--that came for us about 6:20 that Sunday morning. I was desperate to pee but had to get this guy off before he would take me to the toilets. That was probably the best head I ever gave to any man in my life, driven not by lust but by my bladder. Lois the kneeling sex goddess was even more proficient--I think she brought her wrangler off in about two minutes, then waited impatiently, with her tongue stuck out to display the load he had given her, before he allowed her to swallow and stand for cuffing.

A trip to the toilet (we had to sit down VERY gently) and another kibble-and-water breakfast, this time with our hands free, followed. At 8:00 a.m., we were Dr. Oliver's first patients of the day (I wondered what they paid her to get up that early on a Sunday? She must have SOME student loans to pay off!) She removed the spray-on dressings, examined the damage carefully, and applied more numbing agent as well as dressings to each of our three wound sites. Then she gave us antibiotics and oxycodone, both in pill form.

By 8:30 we were waiting impatiently to be sprung from this torture chamber. Bill knew what was good for him, so he showed up promptly, signed for us, and took the appropriate paperwork as well as tiny bottles of antibiotic and oxycodone. (If you're wondering, ranchers have much freer access to prescription medication for their livestock, both animal and human, than free people do.) Off we went across the nearly-empty parking lot; at least this time our nipples were covered with dressings, although our hairless cunts were completely exposed. Slaves have to be thankful for small favors.

I had learned to keep my mouth shut but started to get angry when Bill walked us around to the back of the horse trailer, where he had dropped the ramp. Oh, lord, I thought--is he going to play the same juvenile joke that some 18-year-olds like to pull when their friends are slave graded--that is, keep them in collars and cuffs all the way home from the market? We're in too much pain for such games. Just wait until I get free.

But then I looked inside the trailer and saw that he had installed two air mattresses with high thread count sheets and lots of pillows on them. He quickly started the ramp closing and uncuffed us, explaining that he thought it would be too painful for us to sit on the truck seats all the way home to the ranch. Instead, he had left us our clothes, bottled water, and a fast food breakfast--he told me to use my cell phone if we wanted to come up front, otherwise he would stop just before we got to the ranch.

I may have to keep this guy; he's a sweetheart. A month later when I was finally healed, I gave him a reward: another night of playing pony girl and master. Hey, just because I told Lois I didn't want to do it in public doesn't mean I can't use my hard-earned brand for roleplaying games in my bedroom! (If you're wondering, my SOB husband DID mount the photograph of my new-branded butt in that bedroom. Who says romance and chivalry are dead?)

(To be continued)