Brenda's New Career

CAUTION: This is a sequel to the story "Brenda's Fate." That tale and this one are cruel stories of perversion and abuse, completely unlike the usual things I write of mutually enjoyable sex involving congenial and consenting adults. If you are bothered by such activities, I don't blame you, but I do suggest you not read any further. The second page is especially bad.

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For what she thought was probably about a week following her enslavement, Brenda's life had been a monotonous and miserable routine. Her first night as the chattel of Cornelius McGillicuddy III had been spent trussed up painfully in what he called "The Training Room," with her hands manacled above her head and chained to what she later learned was a track that ran around the ceiling of the large room. Since being cuffed that first night, her hands and arms had remained in the same position.

While the thuggish minions of the evil, foul-smelling old man had outfitted her almost nude body with a saddle and a bridle with a bit and attached reins, she had fought back the best she could. Brenda was big and young and strong, and had tried her best to punch and kick her tormenters, but to no avail. As punishment for that resistance, her ankles had been tied tightly to the backs of her thighs, and Brenda had spent the night in agony and, she believed, had come close to permanently losing the use of her legs.

The next day the bonds that held her ankles and thighs were loosened but more degradation was inflicted on the sexy and statuesque brunette. Her captor, who told Brenda he was now her owner, went on to inform her that she was his ponygirl, and the sooner she learned to accept that, the better off she and everybody else would be, and the less pain she would suffer.

To reinforce his perverted demands, he had the rest of her clothing ripped from her and a butt plug with an attached tail forced into her ass, where it was kept in place by her anal sphincter. Except for a once daily cleansing of her bowels by an enema, followed by carefully washing her body with warm water and mild soap, she had been forced to retain that symbol of her degraded status ever since it was forced into her. The initial insertion had been painful, and it had remained so for the next few days but, since then, she had adjusted to it, and docilely allowed it to be inserted in her again at the completion of her daily bathing. After a week, if she even noticed it all, it actually felt rather pleasant and erotic, although she didn't ever expect to like it.

For hours, that first full day and every day since, she had been forced to walk, totally naked except for the ponygirl tack, on her knees, with her upper body supported by the chain that held her wrists to the track. Her self-proclaimed owner sat in the saddle, directed her with the reins attached to the bridle, and rode on her back all around the large room. If he thought she was too slow, he used his leather riding whip on her thighs and hips, raising several painful welts.

That first day had resulted in exhaustion and angry red marks on her soft, fair skin but, on subsequent days, Brenda learned how fast she needed to go to both conserve her strength and avoid more than the minimum of whipping. After a few days, her abuser started carrying a riding crop in lieu of the whip and seldom used it at all. When he did strike her, it stung, but not as much as the whip had, and did not leave any painful welts. Even those from her first days no longer hurt and their redness had almost faded.

One morning the routine changed. McGillicuddy and two of his men entered the training room where she had gotten a little sleep the night before. As always, she was on her knees and her hands were manacled and chained above her head. The chain that ran down from the ceiling was too short for her to lie down. Her captor was carrying the same small valise he always brought with him, and she knew it contained his riding crop, and probably some other implements of torture and abuse. Brenda was not interested in finding out what these other things were, because she knew they boded no good for her.

"Well, My Dear," he told her when he stood in front of her with two goons at his side. "You will be glad to learn that your ponygirl training is going quite well, and we will be starting a new phase today. I hope you enjoy it. I'm sure I will."

Brenda was unable to reply because of the bit that was wedged between her teeth and connected to her bridle and reins. She always wore them except when being washed, and the bit was also removed when she was being fed her boiled vegetables and mush. She would not have been allowed to speak to him anyhow, except to express herself as a pony would. He set the small valise on the floor, opened it and removed two black objects. She didn't know what they were, and didn't want to find out, but she knew her wishes meant nothing to the three men who surrounded her. All she could do was glare at the evil old man and the two thugs who were there to protect him.

"I have some nice gloves here for you, My Dear," he told her as he brandished a pair of what looked like long, black, leather gloves.

That was a surprise to Brenda, and she didn't know quite what to make of it. Looking at the gloves, she believed they would probably mean that she would be walking on her hands and knees instead of the way she had been doing. That would be less of a strain on her shoulders, which were usually in pain from her arms supporting his weight while being held in the unnatural position above her head. She surprised herself by feeling a brief flash of gratitude for what would be no more than a small easing of her hard life, but she knew she would never stop hating her captors for their treatment of her.

"Remove the cuffs," the scrawny old man ordered his thugs.

While one of them held Brenda's wrists, the other unlocked and removed the manacles, which were left hanging from the ceiling. Still holding her arms, they raised her to her feet, and either of them held one hand out to their boss, as he approached with the first of the gloves. She didn't know what was about to happen, but she knew that any resistance was useless and, as long as the shriveled old man was able to have his fun, she would be comparatively safe from his henchmen.

None of the three men who worked for him had tried to rape her yet, but she was quite sure they wanted to, and any attempt would succeed, except that he was somehow preventing it. There had been quite a bit of fondling and patting, especially when bathing her, which was bad enough, but she was sure that complaining about it would have done no good, and might have invited their retribution, the way her struggles on her first night had.

When the man who claimed to be her owner started to slide the glove onto her hand and arm, it was loose, and Brenda saw that it had laces that would hold it in place. The strangest thing about it was the lack of fingers; it just became wider at the end and, when the tips of her fingers were close to that point, she felt a thick leather cylinder that extended from one side of the strange garment to the other.

"Wrap your hand around that leather if you don't want to hurt your fingers," her tormentor advised her. "You know, you are so beautiful, I would hate to see you get hurt in any way."

Even if she could have said anything, Brenda would not have done so. A sharp retort would probably have resulted in a whipping, and she wanted to avoid that at all costs. She fully realized what the gloves were intended to represent. They were converting her hands into hooves, which would definitely mean that she would soon be carrying the little man on her back while walking on her hands and knees instead of knees only. Although the change would be a relief to her shoulders, she was certain that other dreadful things would soon be happening to her.

Once both hoof-gloves had been laced onto her hands and arms, with her fingers curled around the leather cylinders, Brenda looked at the ends. Although her upper arms were held tightly, she was able to bend her elbows enough to see that the new accoutrement ended in thick pads of leather that were shaped like horseshoes. She would still live in constant humiliation, but the physical pain might be less. She would also have a better chance of escaping if her arms were not constantly chained to the ceiling.

"I have something else her, My Dear," McGillicuddy told her. "I don't want you hurting your sweet little knees either," he continued as he removed a pair of kneepads from the valise.

Brenda wondered about the latest trappings. The floor of the training room was well carpeted and padded, and there would have been no previous need for them. She thought she might be taken outside, to be ridden there, and she didn't know if that was good or bad. The fresh air would be nice, but it might mean being outside in the heat or cold or even having her nakedness put on display to other creeps and perverts. Whatever happened, there would be nothing she could do about it, so Brenda stood passively while the pads were buckled into place.

"Well, my dear, suppose we go for a little ride now." He turned to his silent henchmen. "Saddle her up," he ordered them.

As he spoke, her self-styled master tapped her leg lightly with the riding crop. Without being told, Brenda realized what that meant, and got to her hands and knees to wait to be prepared for mounting. As they did every day, the two men placed the saddle on her back, buckled it around her shoulders and cinched it around her waist, fondling her breasts as they also did every day.

The new hoof-gloves on her hands felt awkward, but she was sure it would be a relief to carry her master on her hands and knees instead of with her wrists chained to the ceiling. She stood docilely on all fours while he mounted her and patted her head. She really had no choice, because one of the ever-present goons was standing beside her and holding her leash, while the other man waited passively.

"Good girl," he said. "Your training is really going well. Giddyup!"

Wanting to avoid being whipped, Brenda started forward. She was not used to walking on what amounted to her fists and knees, and she had to struggle somewhat to remain upright. When she felt a tug on the reins that her rider was holding, she obeyed and turned in the indicated direction, toward the side of the training room where the toilet and washing facilities were.

It was a wide, shallow porcelain basin set in the floor, and was where she was taken daily for her enema, followed by moving her bowels, followed by her hand washing by some of her master's men. The track in the ceiling led to it, and she had been able to walk over and use it to urinate as needed, if she was alone or even when there were men in the training room with her. Whatever modesty Brenda may have felt about such intimate things had been crushed by her enforced nakedness and the daily enemas and having her body intimately washed by men who also touched her wherever and whenever they wanted.

Do you need to use the facilities?" her rider asked. "We're going outside where there are none available, so you'd better use it now or hold it quite a while until we return." Brenda shook her head, and he commanded her to start forward again and pulled on her rein to direct her back to the center of the room.

"You know, My Dear, I've been thinking of what your name should be. We can't keep calling you Brenda, because that's a woman's name and you're my pony now. I've decided to call you 'Raven,' because of your beautiful, long black mane."

Brenda, or Raven, didn't say anything, of course, but she was determined to continue to think of herself as Brenda. She would now have to answer to her ponygirl name, but she would never think of herself as anything but a woman named Brenda, although currently in a bad situation. Her rider used her reins to steer her around the room once, before he commanded her to start toward the door he had come through a short while ago.

"Open the door," McGillicuddy said to the man who was not holding Raven's leash. He hurried to obey, and held it open for her.

She followed the directions her rider gave her through via her reins and passed through the open door and out to the tile hallway. Once she reached that hard surface, Brenda was quite grateful for the protection of the kneepads, and she wondered where else her master would want to go. Wherever it might be, she would obediently go there while he rode comfortably on her back.

He directed her to turn down the hallway, and she carried him toward a heavy wooden door. Brenda had to move more slowly than what she had determined to be the optimum pace, but her master seemed to understand and refrained from using his riding crop. Walking on the hoof-gloves was a problem, but the ponygirl in training seemed to be starting to get the hang of it as she continued with her lesson.

The man who had opened the door from the training room hurried to open the second one, letting in the bright sunlight. Unused to it, Brenda blinked several times but continued in the direction her master had ordered her to go. After negotiating a small door sill, she was on a red cement veranda overlooking a large, bright green patch of lawn that was surrounded by roses and other flowering bushes. It was a lovely place, and she wished she could stay there the rest of the day and not have to return to her place of captivity.

Her master had a similar idea and tugged on the rein to direct her to turn to the right. Raven started down a gradual incline, also cement, and had trouble staying upright on the slope, but she persevered and reached the level surface at the bottom, where her master used her reins again to command her to turn to the left.

Following his directions, she stayed on a cement walkway that passed between two hedges that were at a right angle to each other. She was at the same level as the lawn she had seen from the verandah, and it was on her right, while to her left were several rows of comfortable-looking seats. There were more rows on the other side of the lawn and on the end that was closer to them. It looked to Brenda as if she was carrying her master beside a tennis court or similar athletic arena, and she wondered what it would be used for.

"Whoa," her master softly ordered as he pulled back on the reins. Obediently, his steed halted, wondering what would happen next.

"Good girl," he told her, leaning forward and affectionately patting her neck and shoulder. "Isn't this a beautiful place, Raven? Soon you'll be out there on that parade ground, showing everybody what a good ponygirl you are. Isn't that thrilling? Of course, you'll be wearing fine, new shiny tack for those occasions. Do you see that nice looking building there on the end? That will be your home when your training is complete. You should be meeting your stablemates in a few more weeks."

None of the things just described in her future immediately appealed to Raven, who was still thinking of herself as Brenda. The idea of being put, naked, on display in front of a crowd of the old man's fellow perverts had little appeal for her. Still, as she thought about it some more, there was a certain fascination in the idea. She had been scantily clad while putting her body and sexuality on display many times already, as a cheerleader in high school and when she was winning a series of beauty pageants, and she had very much enjoyed doing so. Even in her job as a hostess in the night club, before being lured into her predicament by the man who was riding on her back, Brenda was a sex object for men to gaze at and lust for more than anything else.

She still hoped to escape, although she didn't know how, but if she had to stay where she was, it would not be the worst possible fate. That day's training was difficult, but her master had refrained from using his riding crop, and was actually being quite patient with her. He ordered her to start forward again, and Raven obeyed him immediately, trying to give him an even better ride than she had been doing.

His newest ponygirl carried him all around the grassy area, which he had called a parade ground. As her owner, he was not ready for her to walk on the soft ground, with her front legs still needing practice, so he kept her on the surrounding cement. After one trip around the place where he expected her to soon be on display and winning prizes for his stable, he steered her back up the long incline and through the doors which had been left open. Back in the familiar training room, he dismounted and patted her shoulder and stroked the glossy black mane that had inspired her ponygirl name.

"Good girl, Raven. That was an excellent training session this morning. I hope the one this afternoon will be as good."

She cherished the compliment and whinnied in response, one of the few times she had spoken to her master. When he left the training room, her wrists, still in the hoof-gloves, were manacled again, but the chain connected to the ceiling track was longer. She was still a prisoner and still confined to the same room, but she would have the freedom to go anywhere she wanted to, within that limit, and even to lie down and rest.

The ride that afternoon was just as good, and Cornelius McGillicuddy III and his newest ponygirl enjoyed themselves again. At the end of the session, Raven was once again manacled to the chain that hung from the ceiling. After her daily bath, followed shortly by her afternoon feeding, she was on her own until the next day, when it would be time for her to continue to practice the new and unfamiliar way of walking with a passenger on her back. .

For the next two days, her master continued his ponygirl's training all over the grounds behind the house, even including cautiously attempting the parade ground. He also rode on her back in the rear part of his mansion, which was kept tightly locked apart from the front area, where his ordinary household staff worked and lived.

None of the people who were employed by the rich old man and limited to the front of his mansion knew anything about what went on in the rear part of the building. They were also unaware of the grounds in the back, which were only accessible through the rear of the building or by a concrete driveway that was barricaded by a steel gate with electronic controls and heavy padlocks. He and the men who dealt with the ponygirls and some carefully screened associates made sure that none of those employees ever found out.

One day, two of those associates, Ronald and Virginia Graf came to call on him. He was a portly, middle-aged man clad in blue jeans and a western style shirt. She was a small, pinch-faced woman and wore jodhpurs and a blouse that matched her husband's shirt. Raven knew nothing about the visitors but, if she had, she would have disliked them for what they enjoyed doing.

They were also ponygirl fanciers, and friendly rivals of their host, although Ronald was too heavy to be carried on the back of any member of his stable. He preferred to be pulled in a cart drawn by a team, so he could watch their asses swing while they trotted, and occasionally apply his carriage whip if he felt like it or when he thought they were not making enough of an effort. His wife was a few years older and liked riding the way McGillicuddy did, and she always carried a short quirt, which she liked using on her young and attractive steeds.

The visitors were expected, and they called ahead on their cell phone shortly before their arrival. One of the men who worked with the ponygirls was waiting to open the gate and give them access to the back property and, after they parked their car, he escorted them to the veranda where their host would be joining them. The Grafs had been told of his new ponygirl, and they were interested in seeing and maybe even buying her.