Breeding the Pony Girl Pt. 08

Breeding the Pony Girl, Pt. 08

(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 have any intimate/sexual contact with slaves. This is pure fantasy.)

(The Breeding Barn Café and its staff appear by permission of Mr. Smith27.)

(Lois Spalding's perspective)

The first step toward recovery is to admit you have an addiction. OK, I have an addiction, but I'm not ready to go cold turkey even though I'm addicted to something potentially more dangerous than many controlled substances. A little background:

I own the Spinning Wheel Pony Ranch, where we do a superior job of training human slaves to be ponies--mostly pony girls, but also pony boys and a few pony bois and stallions. Stallions not only race in a different class but perform an essential role (nudge, nudge) in rewarding the girls and bois.

At age 29, I was divorced (from an anal orifice named Jack Herrera) and too busy for much of a social life--to be blunt, I wasn't getting any. That may explain why, some six months ago, I became fascinated with watching one of my stallions, "Stud," as he serviced pony girls. At first, I just admired his oversized cock and the powerful musculature of his ass as he pumped in and out of his partner for the day (we have a big herd, so most days there was at least one pony girl who needed shafting, and Stud was the designated breeder.)

From thinking about Stud fucking me, it was an easy step (downward slide?) in my mind to my being in the position of the pony girl, bent over and bound to a mounting frame while Stud's massive bat filled every inch of me. My stable boss and best friend, Mary Jacobs, helped me live that fantasy--one Sunday morning when few people were around, my alter ego as Pony Girl Ginger (named for my auburn hair) found herself gloriously used both by Stud and by one of my own employees who snuck a "piece of ass" from an anonymous girl left on the mounting frame. Quite apart from the fantastic sex, I realized that my helpless exposure, surrendering all control to other people, was a big part of the sexual thrill.

Like most addicts, though, I wanted more and more of that thrill. Even I blush at some of the things I've done, most of them recounted in previous parts of this tale. Eventually, I figured out that what really floated my boat was a combination of three factors: (1) Being well fucked after (2) surrendering my body to other people who humiliated and subjugated me all the while I was (3) fearing that I would suffer the embarrassment of exposing my identity and/or the horror of becoming an actual slave. I wasn't dumb enough to want to BE a slave, but the fantasy of briefly living as one had an irresistible attraction to a closeted submissive. When I was jilling off, I reduced my addiction to one phrase: I needed to scratch my itch to be somebody's bitch.

After I survived that first Sunday morning, Mary had suggested several outlandish "field trips" as part of what she referred to as "periodically pimping you out." The most extreme suggestion she made was that Pony Girl Ginger should go to the Breeding Barn Café. That was an upscale nightclub where the "floor show" consisted of slave stallions thoroughly using pony girls, with their antics projected on big screens throughout the restaurant. After their very public mating, the girls would then spend several hours in private stalls of the "Petting Zoo" where, for a price, the customers could play with the ponies of their choice. Our ranch had a standing contract to provide a certain number of pony girls and boys to the Café every so many weeks, so it would be a simple matter to slip me in with the next consignment.

*****

Mary was joking when she first proposed sending me to the Café, because the risk of discovery was so great--what happened if one of my social or business peers recognized Ginger? Still, the idea gnawed at my addicted libido until it became another step in my growing obsession with submissive slave sex.

Paradoxically, my daydream became achievable only because of a new safety regulation for harness racing. To protect pony girls from concussions, the Texas Racing Commission mandated a new safety helmet that included redesigned blinders. Traditional blinders, whether for a horse or a pony girl, were flat black rectangles that stuck out at right angles to the wearer's face. While preventing the wearer from using her peripheral vision, these blinders still allowed someone standing directly in front to see the entire face. However, the blinders on the new helmet formed a curved visor that wrapped around the cheeks, sitting about one inch in front of the pony's upper face. The portion directly in front of the eyes was shatterproof plastic that could even be given some magnification for ponies with weak vision. Although the wearer could still look straight ahead, this new design was almost as effective as a mask in concealing the wearer's identity. (Of course, this helmet made the pony look like a sub-human android, a sort of "Robo-pony," but that was the usual attitude about slave ponies anyway.)

"OK," said Mary finally. "I think you're right that the new blinders will conceal your identity while you're being mounted, and I know you're dying to have Stud do you in front of an audience. Remember, though, that our contract requires us to make each filly available for private use for three hours after the floor show. You've had a lot of fun while in slave or pony mode, but this is a new low, so to speak. For those three hours you will be a pony prostitute; can you look at yourself in the mirror after that? Besides, you'll be absolutely alone with three different men or even groups who will use you any way they feel like. Remember what happened to Molly B last year."

That did give me pause--we'd taken Molly B to the Sampson Slave Clinic Emergency Room after a session at the Café, a session where some drunk had torn her butthole a new one by viciously fisting her. She recovered, of course, but I worried about ANY woman, slave or free, being treated that way. Poor Molly B had nightmares (unavoidable pun) for months, but because she was a slave, the assault wasn't considered a significant crime in Texas. The most we could accomplish was to persuade the Breeding Barn Café to blacklist the guy who did it, forbidding him from renting any of their ponies in future. That said, the part of my mind that was Pony Girl Ginger kept begging to be rode hard and put up wet (especially wet between my legs). My libido kept saying that I had taken more than one oversized dick--including Stud's--up my secret passage, so I could handle the challenge/threat of some unknown guy using me like that again.

After much thought, I decided that I simply couldn't pass up the opportunity to play pony slut at the Breeding Barn. Late one Friday afternoon, Mary and Hailie loaded Stud and a filly named Clarabelle onto the right side of a horse trailer that had a lengthwise wall that divided the trailer space into two halves. This permitted us to pull the by-now-familiar trick of stopping relatively close to our destination so that I could be strapped into pony mode, this time including the new type of safety helmet that Clarabelle also wore. (Once on the pony's head, these helmets required a key to remove them.) While Hailie helped me change, we were very quiet so that not even the other two slaves would understand that their new "stablemate" was in fact their owner.

In addition to having my forearms bound behind my back, I was perched on my high-heeled pony boots, laced into a leather bustier that did nothing to cover my ringed nipples or my labia, and very conscious of the ponytail plug stretching my back passage. Besides the restrictions of my costume, I was also fitted with a horizontal safety belt that was anchored at four points to the walls of the trailer. Helpless, I rode in the darkened trailer as my heart and respiration rates steadily rose. I knew where we were going but had no control over what happened to me there; I was being pimped out as a hired pony girl to entertain high rollers, the kind of people who were normally my peers!

*****

Finally, the trailer came to a halt, presumably at our destination. After what seemed like an interminable wait, Mary pulled on my bit to back me out of the trailer, then handed my reins to Hailie, who was already controlling Clarabelle. Next, Mary backed Stud out before installing a leash around his cock and balls and leading him towards the livestock entrance of the Café. Stud still had his hands cuffed behind him, although by the time he went "on stage" a rope would be tied to his elbows, behind his back, so that his hands and forearms were free to grasp his partner. Beside me, I heard Clarabelle nicker; I suspected that she, like I, was thinking ahead to the point when some pony stallion would grab OUR rear ends and mount us! Both of us tried to walk faster until Hailie reined us in and said, laughing, "Don't worry, pony cunts. We'll make sure you get well shafted tonight." Ahhh--that's what I wanted to hear and do.

Inside the building, Hailie led us aside and had us straddle open gratings to pee. As a free woman, I would never dream of urinating in such a lewd position while other people watched me do it--but now I wasn't people, and Hailie was treating me like any other slave. Pissing through a grate in front of witnesses was one of the many little things that slave handlers did to remind their charges that they had no modesty, no autonomy, and no right to think of themselves as "people." The fact that, because your hands were immobilized, a handler had to wipe your pussy and thighs as if you were a messy toddler only increased the sense of helplessness and humiliation.

The next step was to prepare a pony for mating. One at a time, we received a water bottle straw pushed past our bits to allow us to suck, all the while Hailie was whispering to arouse me: "That's right, pony--tonight's your chance to be a slave whore, to get mounted and used while the audience watches you on television monitors. Show the masters and mistresses just how much you love getting fucked to entertain them. Just a few minutes more, slut--keep your mind on making a nice, loud pony call when some stallion pounds your last pony brain cell away. And if that's not enough sex for you, afterwards you get to be a pony prostitute in the Petting Zoo. Won't that be fun?" (Hailie was, as usual, the consummate professional, doing everything to prepare the ponies for a humiliating public show even though one of those ponies was also her boss. Or maybe she just realized that I LOVED the sexual subjugation involved.)

Having turned Stud over to the pony whisperers, Mary reappeared to take charge of Clarabelle who now got the same foreplay that I was experiencing. The entire time, I could hear sounds coming from the main floor of the restaurant. There was a lot of raucous cheering, punctuated intermittently by lust-filled ponies crying out when they orgasmed--cries that their electronic collars converted into a frantic braying sound known as the call of the pony girl. I felt as if I were back in college just before running a 100-meter dash--simultaneously excited by the prospect and afraid that I would screw up. No sense worrying about it THIS time--I was the one about to be screwed. I was so eager to be shafted that, like a well-trained pony girl, I began tossing my head and "pawing" the floor with my right boot.

"You're a horny little bitch, aren't you, Ginger?" giggled Hailie, slowly finger-fucking me to maintain my arousal. "Don't worry, sweetie--it's almost time for you to get bred." In the back of my mind, I realized that I should be mortified and offended by having my employee talk down to me while casually toying with my body. But by now Hailie had already seen the depths of submissive depravity to which I fell--she was not only doing her job well but contributing to my pleasure, so I had no right to object, even mentally. The natural slave girl and pony whore Ginger, formerly known as Lois--no prick too big, no slave treatment too demeaning. That was me.

Of course, the situation wasn't pure enjoyment. I had forgotten the next step, where Hailie installed a pony twitch onto the septum of my nose. A rubberized coating covered the teeth on the twitch clamp, and Hailie was gentle when she released the spring pressure on me, but it still stung. With a 6-foot line attached to the twitch, I was once again led around by the nose, trotting very quickly with tiny steps to reduce the chance of a painful jerk on my nose.

Hailie and Mary turned their docile ponies over to two good-looking women who ran the floor show for the Breeding Barn. They wore matching burgundy polo shirts, khaki cargo pants, cowboy boots & hats and utility belts hung with the usual instruments of slave wranglers--whips, shock batons, horse crops, and the like. This is where their similarities ended. The wrangler who took control of Clarabelle was a petite blonde whose nametag read "Amy Fleming." A taller, voluptuous Hispanic named Sofia Viagra (I wondered how much grief she got for that name) with brown eyes and long black hair took my twitch rope. Even if I did not already have my forearms bound, mouth bitted, and nose clamped, I would have hesitated to argue with her.

"What can you tell us about these two?" Amy asked.

Hailie didn't hesitate to throw me under the bus--or should I say, tell the exact truth? "Clarabelle is relatively new as a pony; this is her first public screwing, so she needs a firm yet gentle hand. Ginger, on the other hand, is a total slut who was born to the collar--she has no shame and enjoys getting shafted in all of her holes, the bigger and harder, the better. I don't know what livestock you're using this evening, but I suggest that a well-hung stallion like the one we brought--Stud--would bring out the skank in Ginger and give your guests a good show." I should have felt insulted to hear my employee disparage me like that, but I was secretly happy that she was lobbying to get me laid properly.

"Sounds like a plan," replied Sofia. "A 20-something stallion called Arnold just shafted a filly until she literally passed out in orgasm; let's see if Stud can get a sluttier performance out of Ginger."

"As a matter of fact," remarked Mary, deadpan. "I've seen both Stud and Arnold cover this pony slut, and she was a superlative whore with both of them." Again, how could I argue with such a masterful summation of my character?

"You just gave me an idea," the wrangler grinned as she quickly used her fingers to add lubricant to my cunt, then started walking with my twitch rope in her hand. "Come along, Ginger Slut." As if I had a choice!

My first sight of the main dining room at the Breeding Barn was overwhelming. It was a huge, horseshoe-shaped enclosure with three stepped levels of tables plus a bar-level balcony where dozens of people seemed to be leering at me from the railing. Every table was filled on a Friday evening, with naked slave waitresses serving drinks, meals and oral favors. The hubbub assaulted my ears.

In the middle of the horseshoe was a large stage equipped with several mounting frames as well as cameras to project close-ups on the large suspended viewscreens. As we entered, the previous "contestants" were leaving, looking as if they had been ridden hard with cum streaks on their faces. With one exception: my wrangler signaled to another woman who was controlling a familiar-looking stallion--Arnold, the champion racer (and superlative fucker, I reminded myself with a silent smile) of Tribade Training Ranch. Ordinarily, a filly about to be publicly mounted would feel intimidated by such a well-hung male slave, but I recalled that Moira O'Neill, Arnold's owner, had told me that most of the time her ranch just milked the stallions with strap-ons rather than allowing them to shaft fillies. Perhaps that's why, even though he had just put on an x-rated show, Arnold was still at least half-erect now. In any event, Mistress Sofia wanted to keep him onstage.

She led me to the front of the stage, in the well of the restaurant's horseshoe. Then she had me face the stage, away from most of the people, and ordered me to "Display!" This meant spreading my feet well apart, bending forward with my head between my knees so that I was looking at the audience upside down. This put my dripping cunt on display, spread wide open, while my ponytail (folded and banded to prevent soiling) stuck straight up in the air like a flagpole planted in my ass. It's more difficult to do this than you might imagine when your arms are secured behind you. I was thrilled to be so obscenely displayed, but also thankful that the safety visor helped conceal my identity.

I heard a click on the public address system, and then the mildly sarcastic voice of Sofia boomed out, amplified manyfold.

"Ladies, Gentlemen, and Sluts. I'm sure you were as impressed as I was when Arnold [she gestured towards him] did such a great job of breeding that last pony. So, I think it's only fair that we give Arnold an encore. Those of you who are close enough can see that this filly [she slapped my butt so hard that I'm sure a handprint appeared) has been branded by the well-known Spinning Wheel Ranch. I'm told that Ginger is such a size queen that at various times she has accommodated not only Arnold's massive whacker but also an equally-well-endowed stallion at the Spinning Wheel, known only as Stud." She gestured towards Amy Fleming, who was grinning as she led my champion, 25-year-old pony boy out on stage.

"For your entertainment, therefore, I propose that we let these two pony boys spit-roast Ginger." (Another round of applause.) "Arnold had already pounded that poor filly, Rebecca, unconscious with lust, so this time we'll give him something that few ponyboys ever get--a chance to get sucked off until he shoots. And at the same time, we'll see if Ginger can really accommodate THIS bat" (as she reached over to fondle Stud's rampantly-erect manhood).

"The drawback with spit-roasting," Sofia resumed her monologue, "is that with her mouth full the filly won't have much breath to issue a pony call to tell us how much she loves being plowed by these animals. So, we may have to re-arrange things after one of these stallions seeds her first, OK?" (A final round of applause.) "Let's git to it. May I have a volunteer to lubricate Ginger's openings?"

She clicked off her microphone as an eager young guy, who appeared to be just the minimum age of 18, rushed forward to grab a latex glove and bottle of lube from a side table. He enjoyed thrusting his coated fingers well up into my cunt, then popping out my tail to do the same thing in back before replacing the plug.

Next Sofia, pulling on that damned twitch, led me up onto a mounting stand where she promptly secured me. Twice before, I had enjoyed the fear and anticipation of being in this position, waiting for an oversized guy to impale first my mouth and then my cunt. This time, however, I was on display in front of hundreds of wealthy customers--some of whom I undoubtedly knew!--waiting to be double-teamed by TWO stallions. The very idea was nirvana for my slutty libido. As I've said before, I was addicted to this combination of sexual use, helplessness, and public humiliation.

My split personality became more schizoid than ever. Mentally, Ginger the slutty pony girl was thanking Lois Spalding the careful trainer for making sure that Stud got to screw two ponies yesterday and none so far today, a combination designed to ensure that the stallion could maintain a long-lasting erection without shooting his load too quickly. Ginger was in for a thorough shafting!