Breeding the Pony Girl Pt. 05

Breeding the Pony Girl, Pt. 05

(This story is set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is commonplace for serious crime, unredeemed debt, or voluntary self-indenture. Eighteen years of age is the minimum for anyone in this world to be enslaved or to have any intimate/sexual contact with slaves. Thanks to Joe Doe, who suggested the plot for this episode.)

(Lois Spalding's viewpoint)

"Whoa, Ginger."

It was a muggy Texas evening and I had sweated quite a lot while pulling the buggy up the hill, so I was glad to take a break, panting hard. Of course, when the driver told me to stop, she had also tugged backwards on two sets of reins. One set was attached to the bit in my mouth, pulling my lips back to form the famous "slave grin." More uncomfortable were the "tit reins," connected to the shiny rings that adorned my nipples. Even though those reins ran through a second set of rings under my arms and also had springs on them to absorb most of the tension of a pull, tugging on them gave me both a brief shot of pain and a zing! of erotic stimulation. At least, with those reins installed, pony girls weren't expected to wear bells on their nipples.

Ordinarily, I should have been on the other end of those reins, since I owned the Spinning Wheel Pony Ranch. This time, as on several recent Saturday evenings, I was acting as a pony girl being driven by one of my own employees, Hailie Wilson. If you haven't read the previous portions of my strange little story, I guess a word of explanation is in order.

About five months prior to that evening, I had become fascinated--OK, obsessed--with the fantasy of pretending to be one of my own pony girl slaves so that I could get thoroughly shafted by my muscular, champion pony boy stallion, Stud. Any heterosexual woman who saw that guy's oversized cock and balls, not to mention the magnificent muscles of his ass as they flexed to impale a pony girl, would at least imagine being on the receiving end of Stud's thrusts. In the high-testosterone environment of a pony ranch, however, I had to conceal my obsession from my employees--the younger guys would have lost whatever limited respect they had for the female owner if they saw her acting like a slave pony, aka slut. So, early one Sunday morning my middle-aged stable manager, Mary Jacobs, had kitted me out as a pony girl--high heeled boots ending in small horseshoes, arm binder holding my forearms parallel to each other behind my back, tight bustier that made my breasts look huge but left my groin completely exposed, elaborate headdress to hold my long auburn hair up like a pony mane, and an uncomfortably-large butt plug that anchored my matching horse tail (ouch). That time I was also wearing one of the electronic collars that translated any speech into horsey sounds. I had become not only a slave but a helpless, mute animal--to be blunt about it, a filly or bitch. After initial trepidation, however, I found I absolutely loved that role.

We got away with the masquerade the first time, and my magnificent stallion, serving an 8-year enslavement for causing an injury accident while DWI, thoroughly stretched both of my passages. (Damn, that boy was only 24 but he sure knew how to fuck!) If I wanted to risk further such games, however, I knew I should get my ass branded so it blended in with the rest of my livestock. That was a daunting hurdle, so when Mary, with the best of intentions, urged me to get it done discreetly at the Longhorn Slave Market, I insisted that she put some skin in the game and join me. To conceal our identities, Mary's husband (and my head cook), Bill kennelled us as slaves for an overnight stay at the Longhorn. (The managers knew our identities, and the two guys who processed us could easily have discovered the same by looking at the National Slave Registry, but no one said our names or legal status out loud.) That day, the slave wranglers at the market checked off several items on my submissive wish list, casually face-fucking and gang-banging both of us. The downside of that thrilling usage was not only getting my butt burned but also, thanks to Bill's big mouth, feeling my nipples pierced and having the Longhorn videotape the entire embarrassing process--all at my expense! Afterwards, I apologized profusely for involving Mary in such a painful experience; she forgave me and (when Bill wasn't around) admitted that she also got a thrill out of having muscular young men use her like a sex toy. And she said nothing about the fact that one of the wranglers had ordered us into a 69 position, licking each other.

The kennelling experience confirmed my previous suspicions that I really enjoyed pretending to be a slave, at least for short periods of time. Even when I wasn't actually getting screwed, I got off on the sensation of helpless subordination, especially to strong men, and the fear that my identity--like my groin--would be exposed. I didn't even dare contemplate the risk of truly being enslaved, although I'm sure that risk contributed subconsciously to my excitement.

I think Mary recognized (and perhaps identified) with my submissive tendencies, so she had suggested spending Saturday evenings, when most of my staff were out drinking, with me practicing as a "real" pony girl on the back trails of the ranch. Unwilling to admit my submissive instincts, I at first demurred, asking why I would suffer the discomfort and risk if I wasn't even getting banged out of the deal.

The look I got from Mary told me she wasn't buying my act, but to assuage my pride she gave me a number of more believable reasons to try it out--I needed to walk and think like a pony if I were ever to merge with my herd for sexual hijinks; it would help me as a pony trainer to empathize with my sluts; it was good exercise that would work off the stress of my job; and in the process I would get the beginnings of a tan, especially on my legs and rear cheeks. (Up until then, my untanned white skin, so different from that of every working pony on the ranch, made me stand out in ways that might lead people to ask questions. Even then, I had to use self-tanning cream to reduce the white space where my collar went.) So I agreed to buggy harness training as the logical next step in my still unarticulated dream of playing pony.

Like many other ponies, I now wore a blinder headdress. This not only discouraged me from looking around (which again would attract undue attention because it showed lack of discipline) but also broke up my facial outline--unless someone looked directly at my face from the front, he or she was unlikely to recognize that Pony Girl Ginger bore a remarkable resemblance to the "ice princess" who owned the ranch.

*****

We made two additions to indulge my habit. First, stall B-18, at the end of a long row of pony accommodations, was specially modified. We brought in an outside carpenter one weekend to construct a concealed passage leading from the inside of the stall to the ladies' room next door, so if necessary Ginger could enter and leave without having someone unlock her stall. (Don't tell Mary, but before this I got a little thrill when, while in pony girl mode, I had been locked up in a stall; the passage actually reduced the fun of indulging in what amounted to self-bondage.)

Even with this trick, however, another person had to help dress me as a pony girl and later to free me from the arm binder. This issue, plus the fact that the owner and her stable boss couldn't both disappear at the same time (nor should "Ginger" always be seen only in Mary's company), meant that we needed another member of the staff whom we could trust with my shameful secret. We settled on Hailie, who had guided Stud to mount the redheaded pony that Sunday morning.

I was both embarrassed and hesitant to tell Hailie about Ginger's real identity, but we discovered that she already knew it. When I gingerly (pun intended) raised the subject, she giggled quietly as a friendly smile drifted across her face. Then she replied,

"I wondered what you were up to, ma'am. It took me a few days to figure out, because I knew we didn't have a pony with pale skin and auburn hair. After that, I decided you wouldn't appreciate my asking any questions. None of my business why you did that, but if you'll forgive me for being crude I was impressed that you could handle that horse cock inside you. Can't say I blame you for hushing things up, anyway. The younger guys around this place already say disrespectful things about women when you can't hear them, and just imagine what they would think if they found out you were dressing up as a pony. You don't pay me to gossip, just to take care of the inventory and keep my mouth shut--let's leave it at that, OK?" Amazing what you learn about your employees when you talk to them--she got a raise, plus overtime for working Saturday evenings.

Which is how she and I ended up on top of that hill one Saturday. I felt the buggy's weight shift as she dismounted, then Hailie appeared between my blinders, standing at my head, and inserted the straw of a water bottle into my mouth. As I sucked thirstily (let's face it, I love sucking!), she gently massaged my breast with her other hand, then stopped to apologize when she realized that she had been groping her wealthy boss in public like any other pony on the place.

"Sorry, Ma'am," she mumbled, looking around to see if anyone was in sight; "It's just habit to stroke pony girl boobs like that when they do well."

I wasn't wearing the electronic collar we sometimes installed to convert human speech into horsey noises. Here was a chance for me to practice the meek little voice I had developed so that Ginger wouldn't sound like the assertive, kick-ass ranch owner. "I know, 'Mistress,'" I replied, trying to articulate very carefully around the bit in my mouth. "Your hand felt nice, though, and stroking me like that maintained my cover if anyone saw us." In fact, getting felt up like that added to the thrill I got as a pony girl. By now, I'm sure that Hailie was under no illusions about my twisted mind, but we both maintained the fiction that this game was intended to give me exercise and help me empathize as a pony trainer, not bring my wet dreams to life. She never commented even when, on several occasions, I came back to the stables with moisture between my legs.

*****

The following Thursday, though, the excrement impacted on the ventilator. I was supervising wind sprints for our new fillies when my phone buzzed; it was Mary.

"Boss, we've got a slight problem," she began, then hesitated as if she was trying to think how to say something in case someone else was listening. "One of the new inspectors from the state Ag Department is here to check our inventory."

(The Livestock and Slave Division of the Texas Department of Agriculture oversees all aspects of slavery in the state. After lurid news stories of extreme cruelty to humans in collars as well as kidnapping free women into slavery, the governor had directed the division to begin random inspections of businesses that owned slaves to ensure that none of those slaves were abused or kidnapped. Of course, "abused" was a relative term in slave-friendly Texas--since slaves had no personal rights, they frequently experienced physical punishment and sexual exploitation. Gang-bangs, croppings, and brandings were all considered "normal." Only extreme instances of cruelty and clear-cut cases of kidnapping were likely to be reported, let alone indicted.)

"What's the problem, then?" I asked, genuinely puzzled. Unlike some fly-by-night outfits, I had insisted that my ranch conduct periodic reviews of the treatment and records of every pony on the spread. I'm not saying my slaves were happy but compared to other places they had no reason to bitch.

"Weeel," she said, stretching the word out, "He wants to interview Ginger." Crap. Back when Mary and I first began my masquerade, we had added Ginger to the ranch computer records. We used the Slave Identification Number (SIN) tattooed inside my lower lip when I, like most young women, had been slave graded soon after my 18th birthday. That way, we thought, anyone who checked Ginger would be satisfied that she was part of the inventory. Our idea had been to discourage curious employees like Hailie, only now that file was coming back to bite ME in the ass.

I had no choice. "Send Hailie over to B-18 to get Ginger ready; Tell Hailie to call you as soon as she's finished."

We set a world record for transforming me. By the time the inspector arrived 20 minutes later, I was in complete pony girl mode, standing in "Present" mode (feet apart, facing the stall door, hands bound parallel to each other behind my back). Fortunately, I kept my body completely hairless below the eyebrows. I also felt very nervous; it was one thing to play under Haile's protection, but now I had to do a convincing imitation of a real pony girl slave in front of a state official who was looking for fraud and abuse.

The guy was in his late 40s, slightly overweight with greying hair. He introduced himself, in a strong Texas accent, as "Sam Houston Sterling," and said he needed to talk to me alone so that I would feel free to speak truthfully. At his request, Haile brought him a straight-backed wooden chair and removed my bit, speech conversion collar, and arm binder. As soon as my arms went loose, I shifted to full Present position, with my fingers interlocked behind my head as I stood fully exposed in front of this strange male. Only my blinders helped conceal my identity as I tried very hard not to look him in the eye, keeping my head bent slightly downwards as a good slave should.

When the stall door closed behind Haile, Sterling walked slowly around my rigid and exposed body, looking intently at my exposed breasts and nipples, clean-shaven crotch, and rear end. I couldn't really see the last part, but he seemed to be examining me all over as if he were looking for whip marks or other injuries. At his request, I used one hand to turn down my lower lip so he could compare my SIN, which was 875-33-9443, to the printout in his hand, a printout I recognized as being "Ginger's" entry in the ranch records. Once he had done so, he told me to retract my lip, and I immediately interlaced my hand back behind my head. Standing like that, exposed in front of a fully-dressed stranger, reinforced the sense of vulnerability that actual slaves experience on a daily basis. Fun but scary.

Having verified my SIN, for the next few minutes he addressed me as 9443, the last 4 digits often being used to designate slaves in a large organization. At first, his questions were very predictable--how long had I been a slave, what had I been fed over the past 24 hours, how often was I given water while exercising, was I left outside in inclement weather, had I ever been whipped as a pony (I could say once, courtesy of Mary), and so on. I answered all this in my most submissive, hesitant voice, trying to sound like a nervous slave without actually lying to him.

When he asked me what was the greatest pain I had ever experienced since being collared, I replied, quite truthfully, that it was when I was branded. That seemed to remind him of the brand, even though he must have seen it when he walked around me. Abruptly, he ordered me to "Display," one of the most demeaning postures for a slave. I did my best to comply, turning away from him, spreading my legs even farther apart, and bending over as deeply as I could, almost tucking my head between my knees. This position made my butt the highest portion of my body, spread wide so he could see both my "slave cunt" and my starfish, which at the moment was stretched to accommodate the standard ponytail butt plug.

I almost broke position when, for the first time, Master Sam touched me. His fingers spent a long, careful time lovingly tracing the deep impression of a spinning wheel on my left ass cheek. He pronounced it a good, clean brand, one that any pony should be proud of. Then, instead of removing his hand he let it slide over to my butt crack, where he began to play with my ponytail. He would pull the plug out just far enough that its widest circumference stretched my sphincter uncomfortably, then allow the lubricated shaft to slide back in with a small "pop." He did this over and over, setting off all my nerve endings. Although he was not touching any part of my skin directly, he gave me the same thrill as if he were sodomizing me.

"You've got a nice, tight butthole there, 9443. Other than your tail plug, are you an anal virgin?"

I flushed, but this question, at least, I could answer with complete honesty. "No, Master."

"How 'bout you just call me 'Sir' for now, sweetheart," he replied, which I of course acknowledged, wondering why he had suspended the usual rules.

Then he was back on the subject of my colon, where he was still toying with the plug. "When was the last time you were taken back there?"

"About . . . five months ago, sir. It was time for my breeding on the mounting frame, and the stallion reamed me back there, as well."

"Did he hurt you?" Came the instant question. I knew he was looking for evidence of abuse, but he seemed strangely intrigued about this incident.

"No sir," I replied. Feeling this abrupt answer might sound disrespectful, something made me add, "It felt good, sir."

He chuckled. "My, what a dirty little whore you are. So, you don't mind being corn-holed?"

Oh, great, I thought; in order to maintain my cover I'm probably going to have to give my asshole to THIS asshole. Well, I was the one who wanted to play pony girl, so no sense bitching now. Instead, I kept to the only safe answer for a slave. "Whatever pleases you, sir."

"We'll see." And then, without removing his hand from my tail plug, he suddenly thrust two fingers of his other hand straight between my exposed labia. I didn't need the "squeaking" sound we both heard to know he would find me wet down there. Once again, the reality of playing slave was making my body betray me. (Or, since Sterling clearly intended to test-drive this pony girl, one could argue my body was providing necessary lubrication.)

He continued to play with both of my lower openings for the next several minutes, to the point where I could feel my nipples and clit standing fully erect while my breathing accelerated. I guess it was natural that an Ag Department inspector would know his way around a woman's body; by reputation, Ag officials got more blowjobs and sexual freebies from slaves than did anyone else in state government (and given our state government, that's really saying something!) Meanwhile, I struggled to maintain my balance in the uncomfortable Display stance. (Imagine YOU were bent double with your legs apart, head down and your weight balanced on your toes while some stranger toyed with you down there.)

Abruptly, Mister/Master Sterling ceased fondling me, ordering me to return to "Present" position and then to sit down on his straight-backed chair. I had to move very carefully so I didn't disembowel myself when I sat on my butt plug. Then he stood in front of me, unzipped his slacks, and fished out a full-sized set of junk. His inspection of Pony Girl Ginger had intrigued him so much that his third leg was close to fully erect. Pretending he had to test my training, the Inspector-currently-flashing-a-pony-girl asked me to repeat the slave yoga mantra or slave hawking that a slut should announce when confronted with a master's ramrod.

That was an easy one: "Please, may I suck your monster dick, Master." (When he invoked slave yoga, I assumed that we were back to Master instead of Sir.)

He pretended that I had made this request of my own free will: "Well, since you asked so nicely, yes, you may suck my dick."