Breeding the Pony Girl Pt. 06

I quickly realized that, by disguising myself as Ginger, I had foolishly trapped myself in another version of my own system that used arousal and denial to turn horny slaves into obedient sex toys. The Jameson Ranch used a particularly insidious form of operant conditioning. At the Spinning Wheel, we ensured that every slave got laid at least once every four weeks, augmented by intermittent "reinforcement" at unscheduled other times. That, I always felt, might be a little frustrating but ensured that the pony eventually get some release. These Jameson trainers had gone one step farther, constantly teasing me while denying me the bliss of an actual orgasm. Again, studies with lab rats showed that, having first taught the rats a particular behavior by rewarding such actions, the sudden denial of ALL rewards would prompt the rats to repeat the desired behavior at a frantic pace, desperately seeking reinforcement. For a three-day period, they probably expected maximum results without ever getting me off.

Even though I recognized how they were manipulating me, I found it impossible to resist. I was hoist on my own petard of controlling sexual release. I'm not even sure what a petard is; I seem to recall it was some form of bomb, but at that point I would have welcomed an explosion in my vagina or rectum provided that I got off on the stimulation.

Of course, there was also the turn-on I got from just being in someone else's absolute power. Looking back at that weekend, I have to admit that half of the excitement came from being a mindless, largely-naked toy for these three. At the time, however, I couldn't decide whether satisfying my urge to be an obedient bimbo made me more or less frustrated by their teasing.

*****

About 8 p.m. on Friday, they finally called a halt to the fun and games and took me to a stall that included its own shower and toilet. Dewey released my arms and helped me out of the pony girl outfit, taking the opportunity to fondle, goose, and tease me yet again. I was so exhausted that I barely noticed. He urged me into the shower, left me a bowl of cold vegetable stew, and reminded me to be on my knees, waiting for my outfit, at 6 the next morning. I wearily showered, ate, and collapsed into bed, too tired to even jill off. Although this entire masquerade was about sex and the three morons had been teasing me unmercifully for hours, my sex drive went on hiatus.

Until next morning, when I barely got ready in time and had to resist the urge to masturbate while waiting for my trainers to restart my torture.

Whether or not the sexual frustration helped motivate me, I have to admit that my form and stamina improved markedly during that weekend. They left me very little choice. By Saturday afternoon I was exhausted, and my times for wind sprints pulling a sulky were getting worse rather than better. Seeing this, Huey ordered me into Display position, which meant facing away from them, legs widespread and bent over as far as I could go. With my arms bound behind my back, it was very difficult to hold this position for any period of time. Not to mention the fact that I was offering them an unobstructed view of my plugged rosebud and moist pussy.

And then I found out why I had to be in that position. I felt him remove and then re-insert the plug on my pony tail. Within seconds, the moisture and heat of my bowels caused the intruder to become hot. I instantly knew that the SOB had ginger-snapped me, spreading a concentrated ginger paste around the plug! Ginger isn't nearly as hot as capsaicin, but it still stings like a mother when shoved up your behind (I had heard of this trick but refused to use it on my ponies. Being on the "receiving end" of ginger paste up my back end confirmed my refusal.) Huey chortled about "ginger-snap for a ginger," then told me he wouldn't flush it out until I did five sprints in a row that were fast enough to meet the time goals. Trotting caused the plug to move constantly in my rectum, and no matter how fast I ran, I couldn't escape the burning sensation in my ass. He finally used a pre-packaged douche on me 45 long minutes later. Again, the memory of humiliating myself, dancing frantically because of the pain, is thrilling. But I'm not a masochist, so I have no desire to repeat that experience.

At the end of the second day, the Good Cock showed up in the form of Richard Jameson. I don't know why the ranch owner would trouble himself with one pony girl, but for whatever reason he played the role that, in a traditional BDSM "scene," the dominant might enact, providing after-care to comfort the submissive. In the process, of course, Master Richard took his pleasure from me, but he seemed to go out of his way to ensure that the pony slut received as much pleasure as she provided. Note to self: send more ponies to get his personal, hands-on training!

*****

(Richard Jameson's perspective)

In an average year the Spinning Wheel Pony Ranch sent me eight to ten trainee ponies. Most of them were eminently forgettable--take them in, work them hard, and ship them out.

Let's face it, most pony sluts have enough youthful freshness and tight musculature to be attractive, and the idea that they're all available for use makes them seem sexy. Between their previous training and how they are edged for motivation, these pony girls are usually dripping with desire, eager to service any free person in any way. Beyond that, however, most ponies are fast food--interchangeable in appearance and taste, good enough to satisfy a temporary urge, but boring and easily forgotten.

This one redhead pony, called Ginger, got my attention, though--she seemed older than the average trainee, and she appeared to have been at the Spinning Wheel for several months rather than the typical few weeks before being sent to us. (Her brand was fully healed.) She was just as aroused and intimidated as all the other trainees who came to my ranch, but at the same time she had a kind of self confidence and grace that you don't usually see in slaves, except perhaps for high-end sluts like the Sandy Foot Girls from the Big D Mart. In fact, I was kind of surprised someone hadn't pimped her out as a pleasure slave instead of a harness pony.

Besides, I thought she needed a little down time after two intensive days of pony training. I try not to contradict my trainers, especially in front of the livestock, but I thought the three people supervising Ginger were going a little bit too far along the axis of belittle and frustrate. Maybe I need to break those three up; Charlene, in particular, doesn't seem to realize that the guys around here would rather enslave her than listen to her talk. Meanwhile, Ginger was clearly trying her best to satisfy them, so the usual treatments were if anything counter-productive.

I told Charlene and her two compadres to take the rest of the day off. Instead, I tooled Ginger around the track a few times, had her run two more wind sprints, and then took her back to her stall.

Her reaction to being alone with me was confusing. On the one hand, she was clearly still horny, but on the other she was even more shy than most new ponies, constantly turning her face down and trying to avoid looking at me. To persuade her to relax, I tried being very impersonal and matter of fact, not even fondling her as I would normally do with any obedient slut.

Once I secured the stall door, I unbound her wrists, removed her bit and headdress, and loosened the ties on the back of her bustier, all the time trying to avoid any direct contact. As neutrally as possible, I asked her if she would behave.

She responded with the conventional "Yes, Master," but even though she no longer had a bit in her mouth her voice sounded artificial to me. You remember that comedy on TV, the one about a bunch of science nerds at a California school? One of the characters was a research biochemist with a killer body, driving ambition, and steel-trap mind, but her voice squeaked like a little girl. Ginger didn't sound quite THAT odd, but that meek little voice just didn't seem to go with such a tall, confident beauty. Oh, well, slavery hits different people in different ways.HH

I sat down and waited, trying not to creep her out as she slowly, painfully removed the rest of her outfit and shuffled into the shower to clean herself up. I noticed that she used the enema bag and nozzle hanging in the shower stall--either she was an anal freak or, more likely, one of my over-eager employees had gingered her tail and she wanted to clean herself out. Yet another thing to discuss with those three tomorrow. I want to arouse my trainees, not torture them.

Eventually, Ginger emerged from the shower, hair still damp. Without any false modesty about her svelte body, she dried off, hung up her towel to dry, and knelt down to eat the bowl of vegetable stew that had appeared through the cuff hatch on the door.

When she finished that, the pony washed her face, then shuffled over and knelt in front of me. Up until then, I had thought she was ignoring me because she never looked in my direction. Now, however, she clearly expected--perhaps even hoped--that I would use her body. Staring fixedly at my boots, in that same submissive little voice she murmured "Thank you for allowing me to clean myself, Master. How may I serve you?"

I stood up, unzipped, and sat down again. "Since you're already in position, why don't you use your mouth, pony?"

Her response was as meek and emotionless as her previous words, but there was nothing uninvolved about her performance! She used her hands and mouth to stimulate my cock and balls, efficiently arousing me. Somehow, she even managed to caress my scrotum by rubbing it between her lovely tits. I was fully erect in less than two minutes, at which point she began slowly swallowing me while her hands added to the sensations. When my head encountered the back of her mouth, she paused, took a deep breath, then straightened her throat and inhaled another few inches. In twenty-some years working with slaves, I had rarely had a female who combined such technical skill with an obvious if contained passion for service. If she had been younger, she would have been a prime candidate for pleasure slave or slave consort, and even at her current age--late 20s? early 30s?--Ginger's owner could have hired her out for $500 per hour.

This deep throat performance inevitably tilted her face upwards, but even then she managed to keep her eyes downcast and half closed. Slaves are taught never to meet their owner's gaze, but this was taking that rule to extremes. Normally, in fact, a skilled cocksucker like her knew to stare soulfully into the guy's eyes, trying to convince him that blowing him was the greatest oral treat imaginable.

Even without that worshipful stare, I suddenly realized that I was about to fire my load down her talented throat. That would have been fun, but I had taken charge of her because I thought SHE needed to get off as well.

So I stood up suddenly, leaving her mouth wide open. The pony's cute face took on a look of surprise and disappointment; I suspect that she thought I was again teasing her while denying her even the limited pleasure of swallowing my swimmers. As gently as possible, I told her that it was time for her to get fucked. A wide smile appeared on her face as she scrambled onto the bunk, head down and knees apart, then reached back to spread those well-shaped buttocks and offer me a choice of portals. Because they were treated as livestock, pony girls normally got mounted from behind, so her stance was perfectly normal. In fact, I couldn't remember when I had last taken a slave in the missionary position, but I was vaguely disappointed that her face and boobs were obscured in her new position. I could have ordered her to roll over, of course, but if she expected to be bred like an animal, so be it; I was too turned on to waste much time.

Besides, she was offering me a nice view of her fine ass. Her little starfish was almost winking at me while her cunt seeped moisture. Some male chauvinist pig once said something to the effect that all women look and feel the same from that angle, but that wasn't true. Again, a typical pony girl's rump is rather thin and muscular because her primary function, even more than sexual service, is to be a draft animal. After two intensive days of training, the muscles on Ginger's butt, legs, and thighs were certainly prominent and tense, but she also had just enough adipose tissue (fat for those of you who slept through slave anatomy) to make her gluteus maximus appear perfectly rounded, marvellously soft, and incredibly inviting. Without conscious thought, my hands roamed over her butt cheeks, teasing her two openings with one hand while the other gently traced the spinning wheel brand embossed on her left hemisphere. I'm a third-generation pony rancher, but the sight of such perfection made me wonder again why her owner would waste such a magnificent pleasure slut as a pony girl. Imagine being a jockey in the middle of a race--the sight of those buttocks pumping rhythmically, right in front of you, would be too distracting.

And then, as I absent-mindedly fondled her the way I always treat ponies, she moaned, sounding like a combination of frustration and deep arousal.

*****

(Lois Spalding's perspective)

After two days as a 24/7 pony girl, I was so deeply into subspace that I would have been happy just to have this quiet, handsome guy shoot his white protein shake down my throat. When he said it was time to fuck, I was frantic to feel him inside me--preferably in my slave cunt but, if he insisted, up my ass would at least satisfy my desire to be used by a master. But then he had stopped short of actual insertion. I couldn't see his face, so I couldn't tell whether he was teasing me again or just enjoying himself. Those fingers felt almost like a lover's caress, and I couldn't help moaning.

I guess he didn't mind, because less than five seconds later "Master Richard" had taken full possession of my birth canal and he was bent over my back so that his hands reached around to tease my nipples and my little knob. He went in easily because I was already so turned on. At first, it seemed as if he was taking his time because he wanted to ensure I enjoyed his love-making--but then I mentally shook my head; you could expect such an attitude when you're dating as a free woman, but very few slave owners gave a (literal) flying fuck about whether their possessions enjoyed the power exchange of getting shafted. OK, the slave handlers at the Longhorn appeared to take some concern for my pleasure when they gang-banged me, but reputable slave merchants encourage such attitudes to ensure their inventory is happy and horny on the auction block. That certainly worked for Mary and me!

As I was saying, Richard's performance was worthy of a considerate man dating a free woman, and for a moment I had a daydream that he and I could have a "normal" relationship between free people. But then, my little field trip, pretending to be a pony girl precisely because I hoped to get used as a helpless slave, had killed any chance of such a relationship--Richard would recognize me long before we got into bed again, and I would be publicly embarrassed as a wannabee slut.

So, I settled for what I could get as Ginger when Richard decided to have some "stall time" with me--and that was pretty great, albeit short in duration. For me, this was a combination of good sex (with a guy rhythmically stuffing my body while kissing my neck and fondling all my erogenous zones) AND great submission (with a large, powerful man wrapped around as well as inside my body, rendering me completely helpless.) Superb fucking and fucking superb! Over the next ten minutes, my temporary master played my body as if it were a slave violin, evoking several shuddering climaxes before he finally discharged into me. Next, he cleaned me up, insisted I drink a large glass of water, and then cuddled me, spoon-shaped, until I fell asleep.

At 5:30 the next morning, the lights came on and the bell rang, signalling the ponies to get ready for another fun-filled day of sweating, straining, and teasing. Of course, Richard Jameson was no longer in bed with me--slave trainers don't spend the night with their fillies. Still, the previous evening felt almost like a dream--until I saw that someone had patiently loosened the tall laces on my pony boots to make them easier to put back on this morning.

There followed another nine hours or more on Sunday of constant teasing, training, and insults. I was still in a happy daze from Richard's masterful use, so my ego was Teflon-coated. It had been fun while it lasted, but I didn't expect to see him again; he had a ranch to run and I was just one temporary boarder who would be gone by that night.

My case of "Happy, happy, Joy, joy" continued all day. I don't know whether it was SOP or just a belated effort to get my attention, but during the afternoon "break" with me tied over the railing, the guys double-teamed me a little too long, causing Huey, Dewey, and me to all three have orgasms. I think Daisy was pissed to be left out. So much for tease and defer; their training was a lot easier to tolerate after they granted me an orgasm. And then I got a bonus meeting with Richard.

At 5:00 p.m., Hailie Wilson rather than Mary drove up to take me back to the Spinning Wheel. When I realized she was watching me, I was in a truly embarrassing situation. I had been staked out under a tree with my ankles pegged wide and my bound wrists tied to a limb above me, forcing me to bend over parallel to the ground. More importantly, I was frantically slurping on Richard's dick as he gently screwed my mouth! NOT the image you want an employee to have of you as a boss, right? Blush.

*****

Richard tried to ask Hailie about me, especially whether the Spinning Wheel had a buyer for me. She was very respectful but insisted that she was "just a hired hand" whom Mary had sent to retrieve a filly; she didn't know anything about my purchase or sale (which was literally true, since neither had ever occurred.)

At last, we got back to a rest area where she could free me and help me to dress again. I could see she was struggling not to laugh, so I told her to go ahead--after all the times she'd driven me around the ranch, not to mention being witness to my sexual subjugation, I had no right to demand respect from her; she did promise again not to tell anyone without my permission.

Mary knew me too well; she could see that I was not only tired but sexually sated. The next day, when I was still resting from my strenuous "field trip," she pumped me for details of my training and immediately recognized that I had the hots for Richard. She tried to suggest that I should meet him socially; perhaps he would be amenable to a girlfriend who liked to play pony slut.

That was a nice pipedream, but I told her to be realistic. By playing pony this weekend, I had literally fucked up any chance of a normal relationship with him. How could a guy respect a woman who voluntarily acted like a slave whore? In fact, I added, now I would have to avoid going to professional events for a while, for fear I would encounter him and he figured out Ginger's true identity.

Mary just got that sneaky grin on her face, and suggested I buy colored contact lens to change my eye color when I went to such meetings. Besides, she still wanted me to try other "adventures in slavery" and reminded me that I owed her some cooperation since she had gone along with me when we were both branded at the Longhorn. She's never going to let me forget that one, is she? At least she didn't joke about using that power of attorney. Shiver.

(To be continued)