Breeding the Pony Girl Pt. 05

I think I've written before that my mind was divided sort of 90 percent/10 percent. Ninety percent of the time in 90 percent of my brain cells (corresponding roughly to my ego), I was a businesswoman trying to make my ranch succeed. I wouldn't call myself a "radical feminist," but I resented the reality that women had to work harder to overcome male stereotypes and be taken seriously in the business world. That was especially true in my part of that world, which made a profit out of enslaving, demeaning, and sexually exploiting (primarily female) human beings. What Sterling wanted was well within the perks that any free adult, of either gender, could demand of a slave; in fact, he could have just told me to "suck dick, pony slut." As a taxpayer, though, it irked me that this guy was abusing his office, getting his jollies by exploiting a female slave he was supposed to protect--AND he was doing it during business hours, "on the clock while he gets his rocks off" if you will. It also bugged me that he could impose himself on me like this when he knew neither the pony girl nor the ranch management would dare call him on it.

But the other 10 percent of my mind was my libido in the form of a not-so-closeted submissive slut. Pony Girl Ginger was thinking, in effect, "Here's a guy who is using not only the master-slave dynamic but also the authority of the government, thereby doubling his domination over me. That's a thrill right there, quite apart from the fact that my body is dressed up as a pony for his pleasure. That cock isn't as big as Stud's, but how many cocks are? At least it's clean and looks tasty. What's the big deal, Ego? You wanted to play slave slut and this guy is giving you another chance to do just that. Dive in."

So I did.

One hand was soon firmly wrapped around the base of his shaft, the other softly manipulating his balls inside that scrotum. I ran my tongue lovingly around the circumcision ridge on his mushroom-shaped little head, then began rocking MY head back and forth, swallowing and then retreating from the first 2 or 3 inches of his phallus. Pretty soon, I told myself, I'm going to have to try taking the whole thing down my throat, but I don't want to give him too much sensation all at once, or his penis popsicle will pop off before I've had much fun playing with it.

I was surprised when he reached down, firmly prised my hands off him, and stepped back. "Damn--you really ARE a dirty little slut, aren't you, 9443? Some other time we'll have to probe your oral skills more deeply, but for now, let's continue checking your skill training. Stand up and walk around to the back of the chair."

I felt as if he had suddenly thrown my oral engine into neutral at 8,000 LPMs (Licks Per Minute), but the way he was talking suggested that he might give me another chance to test out his joystick. Anyway, my role in this little drama was to obey the big, bad Master, so I scrambled to my feet and hurried to stand behind the back of the chair, once again taking up the Present stance.

He turned and grabbed the wool blanket lying on the cot that decorated B-18 as if Ginger actually lived there 24/7. Folding the blanket into several thicknesses, Sterling draped it over the back of the chair, then spanked my butt sharply, sending a clear message that I was to bend over, head low and butt high. His feet pressed on the insides of my booted ankles, casually spreading my legs even farther. Hummm, my 10 percent brain purred--looks like he's about to get down to business. On ME. About damn time!

His next moves surprised me, but after a few seconds my libido revved back up in response. Reaching into his briefcase, he extracted several lengths of soft rope which he used to tie my ankles to the back legs of the chair. I felt him press my tail plug even farther into my back passage, then use it as a handle to push and pull me around on the chair, maneuvering my buttocks until they were displayed precisely as he wished. Sterling followed this up with a pair of slave cuffs. After he had installed one end snugly around my left wrist, he wrapped the middle chain around the horizontal bar between the front legs of the chair and then enclosed my right wrist in the other cuff. These cuffs were specially designed for quick release, but no one who was wearing a pair could extricate himself or herself. Now I was truly a helpless slave object, bound to the chair until the inspector or some other free citizen decided to release me. There were no bones about it, although I hoped he got a boner looking at me. All I could do was stand there and pray that he would get around to pounding my brains out as soon as possible.

*****

Only he didn't.

Instead, having rendered me completely helpless, the bastard proceeded to tease me out of my horny slave mind without actually USING the attached body. Soft, teasing slapping on my rump, fondling my nipples, clit, labia, etc., finger-fucking me for just a few seconds, running his hands up and down the straining muscles of my legs, and of course a reprise of his little game of pumping my tail plug in and out--you name it, he did it. At one point he face-fucked me for a few strokes, apparently to keep himself fully erect. Damn, he was frustrating. To be honest, I've never been a big fan of "edging" or teasing. Looking back on this day, however, I had to admit that Sam Houston Sterling was a master at using my own body against me, dominating me more with my own sensations that with his powers as a state official or the rope and cuffs he used to secure me to the chair.

As a precaution, I had arranged a hidden microphone and video recording system so that Hailie could monitor me while I was locked up behind the closed door of that stall. Half-way through my "interview" with the "Ag Department Inspector," I realized that the video record had been a mistake. Part of what turned me on as I squirmed and begged under his control was the intense humiliation I felt, realizing that Hailie could hear and see every embarrassing word and slap. After this, she would never again think of her boss as anything but a slutty little wannabe-slave with zero self-respect. Yet another way in which Master Sterling dominated me--you might object that he didn't know about the electronics, but as you'll see he didn't miss a trick about the entire situation.

I mention the video recording because, reviewing the tape afterwards, the "edging" part of my "interview" only took about 15 minutes. At the time, though, it seemed to go on for hours. By the end of that 15 minutes, I was squirming so violently that I actually made the heavy wooden chair move a few inches. What little powers of concentration I possessed were devoted to keeping my voice as meek and submissive as I could.

Eventually, I began babbling. "Master, please, please, please . . ."

He saw his chance and took it. "So, am I your master? And does that make you my slave?"

I knew it was risky to tell him the truth, but in my need I did so anyway. "Yes, Master, I'm your slut, I'm your whore, I'm your slave. You own me. Only, please . . ."

"Please what, slave? What do you want me to do?"

"Please, Master, FUCK ME. Ram my cunt, ream my ass, use me for your pleasure, but PLEASE fuck me NOW--I can't stand to wait any longer."

He chuckled in a lower register than before. "If that's what you really want, I'm here to ensure that you don't suffer."

He was as good as his twisted word. The next seven minutes, on the tape, were nothing but images and sounds of flesh slapping flesh. What I remember was a freight train slamming over and over into my pussy from behind. And then, as I approached a long-delayed, massive climax, he withdrew his cock and popped a large vibrating dildo in its place. Next, he practically ripped that horse tail plug out of my rear end and began working his dick between my rear cheeks. I have to hand it to him--despite his obvious excitement he actually moved slowly for about 30 or 40 seconds, stretching my back passage until he was fully installed in my bowels, his thighs pressed tightly against my buttocks. I barely registered that it felt as if he were wearing a condom, which was a good thing. But, I've no idea how any condom could contain the second 100-car train that invaded my rectum in the next few minutes. I skipped straight from the peak of one orgasm to a new one. I was floating on a combination of thrills and discomfort, a sense of being completely occupied and owned, when he finally pressed flush against my rump, gasping, and collapsed, his body as well as his cum being spent.

For several minutes we lay panting. Then he straightened himself up, produced a towel from his briefcase, and wiped himself off. Tucking in his shirt, he slapped my butt gently.

"You're a pretty good fuck," he said, almost affectionately. "In time, you'll be a great pony girl, but meanwhile I'm going to monitor you to ensure no one takes advantage of you." I guess he meant no one ELSE. After that ironic promise, he picked up his case and walked out of the stall, leaving me still completely helpless. For the first few minutes after his departure, that didn't matter because I was recovering from a major physical and emotional experience. After that, I began to be irked by my enforced immobility. I had a ranch to run, damnit. Besides, I didn't want any of my hands to find me in this vulnerable position--I'd been fucked more than enough for one day! I tried rattling the handcuffs but of course got nowhere.

At the end of ten minutes, Hailie appeared to free me, wipe me off, and help me into a shower to recover. Knowing that she had heard every word of my debasement, I couldn't even look her in the eye, but she shushed me and petted me and generally treated me like a sick child until I put myself back together mentally. At one point, I tried to apologize for my disgraceful behavior, but her reply was prompt and comforting:

"Come on, sweetie, everybody needs to get off once in a while. You had fun, didn't you? No need to discuss it further, then," she said with her usual gentle smile.

I thanked her for her concern, got dressed in my ordinary (free woman) clothes, and tried to go back to work.

*****

The inspector had told Mary, on leaving, that he would forward his report to us sometime during the next week. In the meantime, I didn't get much work done. When I wasn't daydreaming about how he had ravished me I was worrying that he might write a report that would condemn the ranch or worse still expose me personally.

Six days after Sam Houston Sterling had so thoroughly "inspected" me, the fax machine in the ranch office rattled, whirred, and spat out a six-page report of his visit. Mary and I read each page as it came off the machine but couldn't find anything wrong. Sterling described the ranch's procedures for verifying enslavement obligations and ensuring the health and safety of its property as "exemplary, establishing a new standard for the safety and welfare of slaves." The only indication of his concern about Ginger, whatever that concern had been, was a vague reference to "minor irregularities in property records, with issues resolved on the spot."

Two hours later, I got the call I had dreaded. He thanked me for taking his call (as if I dared refuse), asked if I had seen the report, and then launched into a monologue:

"Mizz Spalding, I wanted to explain to you my interest in 875-33-9443. As I'm sure you are aware by now, that SIN belongs to a free woman, so I was concerned about the possibility that she had been abducted and illegally enslaved." He continued to talk about "9443" without saying my name or even indicating that she and I were identical. He was pretending that the pony girl he had so thoroughly used was someone different from me. Yet, I was sure that as he talked he was staring at the lurid naked photos of me in the National Slave Registry, photos that were only a few months old so my identity was undeniable.

"That's why I had to interview her, to make sure she hadn't been kidnapped or used sexually against her will. I'm glad to say that her statements indicated that 9443 is acting as a slave of her own free will, including voluntarily offering sexual favors.

To my horror, I heard a tape-recording of my lust-filled voice:

"Please, Master, FUCK ME. Ram my cunt, ream my ass, use me for your pleasure, but PLEASE fuck me NOW--I can't stand to wait any longer."

Then the inspector continued in a flat, unemotional voice. "I have concluded, at least for the moment, that she is a free woman voluntarily acting as a pony girl, and there's nothing illegal about that. I am, however, concerned that she might unintentionally self-identify as a slave. She's free to do what she wishes, of course, but walking around dressed as a pony girl and especially getting the ranch brand on her buttock might easily be misinterpreted. I had to caution her to address me as "Sir," because as I'm sure you know a free person who repeatedly identifies herself as a slave and addresses another person as a master might easily end up enslaved."

The devious SOB. Reading between the lines, he was saying that, if I accused him of abusing his office, he could counter-claim that I had ASKED him for sex--I could be accused of offering a bribe in the form of pussy. Worse still, he might be able to have me enslaved and given to him permanently!

"Anyway," Sterling continued, "To protect her rights I need to monitor 9443 and interview her say, every three months for the foreseeable future."

Well, having him fuck me every three months was a lot better than being his full-time slave. Besides, I had to admit that Sam Houston Sterling really knew how to ring my chimes as a submissive. Once every three months wouldn't by itself be enough to scratch my itch to be someone's bitch, but it was a start.

I might as well agree graciously. "I'll be happy to make 9443 available for these interviews; perhaps you'd like to take her out for a buggy ride sometime? I only see one tiny scheduling problem. I know that you're supposed to conduct your inspections without warning, but because she only serves as a pony girl part-time, she might not be available at the exact time you visit."

"If that happens," came the prompt reply, "I'll have to re-interview 9443 within a week of my inspection date. Otherwise, as I'm sure you understand, I would worry that 9443 had been kidnapped or raped."

"Of course," I agreed. I also made sure to delete the Ginger file from the ranch records!

*****

Mary and Hailie, bless their hearts, were completely supportive when I told them about Ginger's upcoming "interviews" with the Agriculture Department. The two of them exchanged a slight smirk, as if to say "finally, the boss is going to get some on a regular basis." Blush.

But, that next interview was still 12 weeks away. When I pointed that out to Mary, she began making suggestions to send Ginger on some "field trips" before then. Once again, the 90 percent/ego of my mind was aghast at her ideas, and the other 10 percent/libido was dancing a slutty jig. To paraphrase the cliché about famous people that "will ride again someday," I was eagerly looking forward to the day when "Ginger will be ridden again."

(To be continued)