Breeding the Pony Girl Pt. 12

"You're right, of course," I acknowledged, then tried to make a joke. "I suppose it's too late for me to ask you whether you have honorable intentions with regard to me?"

His voice became serious. "Do you really need to ask that, Love?" He left the question hanging in the air before switching to a related topic. "In the meantime, I think you need to talk to a slave shrink, both to understand yourself better and as a necessary step IF you decide to do a FINO contract. Would you do that for me, please?"

I giggled. "I think you've already demonstrated that you can get me to do anything you want, Richard Jameson. But slave psychiatrists are scarce--I don't mind the expense, but last time one of my herd needed one it took more than three months to get an appointment."

"Let me take care of that," Richard replied. "I think I know a shrink who would be willing to give you a tele-med consultation."

That's how, two evenings later, I ended up on a Zoom call with Dr. Nicola Sheldon. I knew her by reputation, of course; almost everyone in the Texas slavery industry had heard about her record both as a therapist and as a researcher, which included co-authoring the standard reference book, Psychological Impact of Slavery. I wondered how Richard had enough influence to get an appointment on such short notice, but I soon realized that "Nikki"--as she insisted I call her--was a force of nature who worked incredible hours to help everyone she could, often (in the case of slaves) pro bono. During our long conversation, I realized that she was giving up her evening to me, although she had to pause a few times to talk to her cute little boy, Butch.

When the Zoom conference first began, I thought I was talking to her receptionist, because the face on the screen seemed far too young and beautiful to belong to such an accomplished shrink. Blond haired, blue-eyed, and when she shifted around I caught sight of an impressive cleavage. She was as friendly as she was gorgeous, constantly smiling and empathizing--Nikki had an infectious personality that quickly convinced me trust her. Part of that trust came when she explained that, to qualify as a slave psychiatrist, she had voluntarily indentured herself for six months, performing as various forms of slave sex worker ranging from BDSM submissive to call girl to glory hole cocksucker. Here was a woman who could understand me without judging my behavior.

In the course of two hours, I confided feelings and events that I would blush to tell even Mary Jacobs about. That even included the fact that I had freely responded to slave commands from Richard, allowing him to collar, cuff, and (blush) spank me to convey his concern about my risky games at the Breeding Barn Café and the Slave Expo. She also went over the pros and cons of a Texas FINO contract.

Finally, I thanked her for her time and apologized for taking up her entire evening. I had thought it would take months of therapy to reach this point.

"Lois," Nikki replied. "You're right that we could take a long time discussing your situation further, and if you want we can try to schedule that. Since we're both busy people, however, I owe it to you to give you my first impressions; my apologies if I seem blunt."

Her face became serious. "If you choose to enter into a FINO contract with someone, I will act as your shrink guardian--it's something I've done before and I'm confident that you understand the risks. As for your overall situation..." She paused as if to collect her thoughts, then plunged ahead.

"First, you have repeatedly referred to yourself as weird, perverted, or even sick. Please don't think of yourself in those terms. Yes, you have some unusual attitudes about what gives you pleasure, but those attitudes are by no means unique. You told me you talked to Nancy Bradford, so you know there are others like you. And I understand you've tried to keep your desire a secret because it would be really humiliating for it to become public knowledge, especially with your peers and employees. Still, there's nothing wrong or perverted or sick about what you enjoy, so long as you do it responsibly." She giggled. "Listen to me--sounds like a public service announcement to drink responsibly!"

Nikki continued. "Which brings me to two risks you face. The first is obvious, and you don't need me to tell you that when you surrender your freedom and allow yourself to be treated like that, you run the risk of being kidnapped or even taken to slave court where a judge might determine that you had enslaved yourself. Which would turn your thrilling adventures into the drudgery of actual slavery, losing all your property and status. The humiliation of THAT would be far worse than any FINO revelations."

"The second risk is that, even when you aren't consciously pretending to be a pony, you slip into the mindset of a slave very easily. Call it slave haze or sub-space or whatever; the exact psychological term doesn't really matter unless you're in court for a protective enslavement hearing, which might really happen, you know?"

I nodded my head, sobered by the idea.

After pausing for my answer, the self-described "slave shrink" went on. "I'm particularly concerned about your response when Richard ordered you to 'collar,' 'back hands,' and 'kneel.' At that moment, you freely chose to act as a slave. Perhaps it happened because you love Richard--and yes, I said love; think about how you feel about the man. You knew he was alarmed--I think you said 'irritated'--that you had endangered yourself, so you acted both to placate him and to surrender all decisions, trusting him to treat YOU--the real Lois, not your pretend pony girl Ginger--as a slave, in any way he wanted. You wouldn't have said a word if he took you back to his ranch and kept you as a slave indefinitely, so long as he paid some attention to his new pony. Am I right?"

Glumly, I had to agree. "I hate to admit it, but you're right--I can't say 'no' to that guy."

Nikki: "The question is, then, whether you act that way because you love HIM (in which case you should consider a FINO contract with him) or because you're mentally ready to be a slave for ANYONE. Sorry to be so gloomy, but this is important. I would NEVER encourage someone to make herself an actual slave, but you need to decide what YOU want to do before you end up with a judge or a kidnapper putting a collar around your neck."

"Finally, unless you authorize me, I won't say anything to Richard other than that I think you're a good candidate for a Texas FINO contract--that's a matter of business law, not patient-doctor confidentiality. However, if you end up enslaved or in court for a slavery hearing, then you lose that confidentiality. Texas law would require me to tell the judge about your mental state, and by that point you've lost all your freedom of choice; I can almost guarantee that every judge I know would decide to enslave you either outright or as a protective order. Please think about this and let me know if I can help you."

"Thanks so much for talking to me, Nikki; I promise to get back to you."

*****

For several weeks, I wrestled with the question. Richard called or texted me intermittently, and we even sat together at a slave industry banquet. He was very loving with me, holding my hand under the table and kissing me good night, but all he would say about the big issue was that he wanted me to reach a decision soon, then talk to him.

By now almost a month had passed since the Slave Expo, and my indecision was made worse by the fact that I hadn't indulged in my favorite hobby, so I was having withdrawal symptoms (this being the south, perhaps I should have said "With drawl symptoms." Bad joke, never mind.)

One Friday I asked Hailie if she would like some overtime the next evening, which was our code for taking me out as a pony girl. Mary heard me and objected; she spoke formally because we might be overheard.

"Do you think that's wise, Mizz Spalding? Remember what Mr. Jameson said."

I snapped, "Who do you work for, me or Richard Jameson?"

She moved closer to me and half-whispered, "At the moment I work for you, but if you get your cute little butt enslaved, how will I explain things to your board of directors?" I had no comeback to that, so she added, "At least write out instructions to have yourself tacked up and trained; up until now, if anything went wrong with Ginger you'd be enslaved but that poor girl might be suspected of helping to kidnap you."

That made a weird kind of sense, especially after Richard has warned me that my games were exposing the two of them to prosecution. I wrote out instructions for what I wanted Hailie Wilson to do to me. I realized that such a document could be used as one more proof that I WANTED to be enslaved, but Mary was right, I owed it to Hailie and her to absolve them of responsibility. In retrospect, I guess I was ASKING for a collar. (Duh!)

The next evening, just after sunset, I felt happy for the first time since the parade--Hailie had felt and tacked me up (while talking to me as a bimbo pony) and was now pushing me hard up and down the back trails of the ranch. I was in a submissive groove, damp between my thighs and occasionally thrilled when she hauled back on my bit and nipple reins.

And then it all went wrong. I heard what sounded like a shotgun blast from behind us. I couldn't turn my head to look, but Hailie's despairing "Damn!--Rustlers" told me all I needed to know. Soon two all-terrain vehicles, driven by masked and helmeted men, pulled up alongside. There was no way I could outrun a motorized cart even if I weren't pulling a sulky. Hailie pulled back on the reins again, and this time I did not get any sexual thrill. I felt even more miserable when Hailie gave a sharp cry and fell off the sulky behind me--apparently one of the rustlers had knocked her sprawling.

One of the men, whose swarthy appearance reinforced my impression (stereotype?) that he was Mexican, jumped off his ATV and strode over to me. In seconds he had cut away my helmet strap and yanked the bridle and bit off my head. When I opened my mouth to scream (which would have been futile, since no one was within earshot to help), he stuffed a dildo gag into my mouth and secured it behind my neck. I was glad to realize that the dildo had a breathing tube in the middle of it. By the time I had found that I could still breathe, I was plunged into darkness as he pulled some type of black cloth bag over my head. A series of sharp tugs disconnected me from the sulky harness, after which he apparently cut the cords that held both my forearm binder and my bustier closed. Then I felt him jerk my ponytail out--without the GPS tracker in that butt plug, no one would be able to locate me. My voice converter collar followed, replaced by what felt like an ordinary leather slave collar.

As he restrained my wrists with a zip-tie, the full horror of my situation struck home. I was gagged, hooded, and cuffed, standing slave naked except for my boots. Nobody but poor Hailie would know that I had been kidnapped, and it would take her quite a while to walk back to the barns and rouse some help. Ginger had suddenly become a real slave, figuratively fucked with the actual penetration no doubt coming in the near future. Why didn't I listen to Richard?

The rustler effortlessly lifted me and carried me a few feet, then put me down roughly--I felt a wire mesh pressed into my skin, telling me that he had placed me in the carrier at the back of his ATV. Finally, he zip-tied my ankles as well, then used what felt like another pair of zip-ties to connect wrist and ankle restraints into a hogtie.

The whole process took less than two minutes, and then with a roar of his engine the rustler hauled me away from the ambush site. For the next 20 minutes or so (I had no way of measuring time) his wild driving bounced my body cruelly all over the carrier basket before we came to a halt. I knew I would have bruises the next day, but that was the least of my worries at the moment. Someone--presumably my abductor--lifted me off the vehicle, while in the background I heard a number of sounds that (I finally concluded) probably were the other guy loading the ATVs onto some truck for their further escape. If they were able to conceal those vehicles inside something else, no one would associate them with my disappearance--even assuming that someone was looking for me!

I had little time to think about my situation, as the guy carrying me dropped me on my knees in what felt like sand or dirt. I sensed the bottom of my head bag being lifted up, then the rustler removed the dildo gag and promptly replaced it with his cock! Thank heavens he was clean, other than being somewhat sweaty. Still, my first blowjob as a real slave was a LOT less fun for me than all the times I had used my mouth while pretending. I concentrated on getting it over with, using my tongue and lips as much as possible while the guy grasped my ears through the bag and pumped vigorously into me. Then his hands shifted to toying with my nipples. I confess that the combination of strokes and pinches did arouse me a little bit--I must have been more submissive than I had ever imagined.

It can't have been more than 30 or 40 strokes before he blasted a large load into the back of my throat. I was still coughing and hacking when he re-inserted the gag and rolled down the heavy cloth bag. For good measure, he shoved a lubricated butt plug up my back passage--it was uncomfortable, but smaller than the usual ponytail retainer.

I felt someone fiddling around my shins but couldn't figure out what was happening until my boots suddenly came off, eliminating the last stitch of my pony girl costume and the last place where a GPS might have been concealed. At least my ankles were no longer restrained, but that didn't last long. The unknown rustler was muttering something that sounded like Spanish, although the only word I recognized was "puta," the universal term for whore, slut, or bitch. I suddenly realized that the word perfectly described my new status. After he pushed backwards on my shoulders several times, I got the idea that he wanted me to crawl in that direction. That quickly brought me into contact with a hard tray--crap! He was putting me into a "poodle cage" used to transport slaves. I heard the gate swinging towards me, and flinched backwards before it slammed shut, sounding as if it were right where my face had been.

Apparently, being bound, gagged, and hooded in a cage wasn't sufficient restraint. I felt his hands reaching through the wire mesh as he used zip ties first to secure my ankles to the back corners of the cage and then to connect the zip tie around my wrists to the cage wall behind me. This left me unable to move anything except my head, while my butt cheeks were pressed back into the wire--I'm sure it looked as if I wore fishnets! Not to mention that this position held the plug securely in place. I wasn't going anywhere on my own until someone released me.

Which seemed like it would be a long time coming (no pun intended.) Whatever vehicle I was in started up and moved for what seemed like hours. I had no idea where I was going, but I was conscious of the high-speed whir of tires on a highway. Then the truck or whatever started, stopped, and started again for 20 minutes or so, as if it were in bumper-to-bumper traffic. I really freaked out when, during one rather long stop, I heard what sounded dimly like a conversation in Spanish--and then the truck picked up speed again. Had that been a customs stop at the border? If so, I was now genuine slave meat in Mexico with no chance of escape. My life as a free woman was over--the only question was how harshly I would be used.

Another long, wearing time on the road. I was too terrified, worrying about Hailie as well as myself, to really sleep, but I must have dozed off because when I awoke the truck was again halted and this time the motor was no longer running.

Then I heard a scraping noise and the entire cage tilted--someone had loaded their newest slave onto a handcart. Where the hell was I?

(To be continued)