Ellie May's 4-H Project Pt. 04: Free At Last

When they was done beating me, the other bailiffs released me from the railing, cuffed my hands behind my back so I couldn't even try to cover my body, and walked me, along with Ellie May, down a crowded public corridor to the County Clerk's office. The attorney who had appeared against us in court, a wizened old man with white hair and no more'n five feet tall, came along. When we got to the Clerk's office, both of our gags were pulled out and a numbing agent was sprayed on the inside of my lower lip. I was still tearing up from the whipping when someone stuck some kinda electronic needle machine against the inside of my lip and switched it on with a loud buzzing. When they turned down my daughter's lower lip and scanned what was there, I figured out that he'd been inscribin' me with the bar code for a Slave Identification Number, jest like Ellie May got when she was slave graded three years ago. This wasn't some power-crazy cracker judge; we really WERE slaves! I almost fainted from the shock, but two bailiffs held me up (and took advantage by squeezin' my tatas, which at least was a distraction from the shock).

After the clerk finished entering a bunch a data into a computer, they took pitchurs--full frontal standin' and kneelin' NUDE photographs--of our bodies. I was still recovering from the shock of all this when that old lawyer simply told Ellie May, "Kneel, mouth."

And she did it! Down on the floor with her legs wide apart, hands cuffed behind her back, right in front of her mama my beautiful girl just opened up and INHALED that guy's ancient dick! She must have been the finest cocksucker he'd ever seen, because within three minutes he stiffened as if he had a stroke, then pulled his cock out of her glistening lips and tucked it away. She was blushing hard, looking up at me, as she stuck out her tongue to show everyone a load of white goo on her tongue; she only swallowed the repulsive stuff after the old guy nodded. (Much later, she warned me that slaves were expected to do this whenever a master blew off in their mouths--she'd learned about it in slave wrangler school, and I'd better be prepared to do the same thing. Danged if she wasn't right, too--over the next several months I must have had to swallow cum--something I NEVER did for my three boyfriends and two husbands--a hunnerd times. Make that two hunnerd.)

Then, after defiling my adult daughter before my very eyes, this geezer looked straight at me and said, "For the next thirteen years, that's all your mouth is good for, slut. Don't dare to speak again unless a free person asks you a question, and then remember to be respectful, got it?"

If that wasn't enough, they stuck dang ring-gags into both of our mouths--and my gums were still stinging from the number they carved into them. By now, I'd figgered out that there was no point in fightin' it--I just followed my daughter's lead, and mostly what SHE did was obey every order and move as quick as possible wherever she got shoved or spanked. The one time I balked, being marched butt naked down another courthouse corridor full of people, someone whacked my ass right on top of those strap marks!

Then we came to a loadin' dock, where the bailiffs forced us to kneel inside wire mesh dog cages, after which they tied my ankles and the handcuffs behind me to the walls of the cage. It was really uncomfortable in there, 'specially when my flayed ass rested on my heels, but eventually I came to treasure being shipped in a dog cage, because at least while I was in that cage men weren't whippin' and fuckin' me! 'Course, they DID tend to reach inside and grope me . . . Can I help it if I have nice boobies?

I heard that old fart shyster give some clerk shipping instructions to send us to some place called the "Spit-Roast Bar." I thought--a Bar? Lead me to it--I need a drink after today! How was I to know that the only things I would get to drink were a little water and a LOT o' cum?

*****

Back when Ellie May starting that slave wrangling class, they took her to a lot of strange places where slaves lived--if you can call it living. I mean, we all know that men are disgustin', selfish creatures always trying to get some God-fearin' woman to give them a blowjob or a feel of her boobies. To be honest, I remember thinking that slaves served a useful purpose, satisfying all those baser urges so us free ladies didn't have to. But, what my daughter told me about slave establishments seemed so outlandish that I suspected someone was puttin' us on--not even MEN could be THAT repulsive! Shows you what I knew.

You probably figgered out what "spit-roast" meant before I did, right? From 11 a.m. to 9 p.m. every day, Ellie May and me spent most of our time strapped down and kneelin' underneath tabletops with all of our openings available for use by the "guests." The first day, the owner tied us down and whipped our butts [mine hadn't even recovered from the court room], then warned us that if we didn't make the guests happy, we'd regret it. I thought that meant getting whacked a few more times, and I was willing to accept that. Boy, was I dumb. Tied down like that, it was the customers I had to look out for: If I didn't suck some guy well enough with my mouth, he jacked off all over my face and left his goo dripping down in my eyes. If the customer didn't get off in my cunt, he or she would invade my butt instead! Even without the friction of somebody bumping against my still-sore behind, it really HURT when they shoved big things up my ass.

I figured I could tough it out, but I worried about poor Ellie May. Yet, at night when we whispered between our neighboring cages, I was surprised to find out that she actually ENJOYED her treatment.

"Come on, Ma," she whispered. "You taught me to at least ACT like a lady and never give it away for free. Now . . . waal, to be honest, all this fuckin' is FUN! I don't like being tied down any more'n you do, but most evenings I get off on this, and I don't have to apologize or pretend because they're FORCIN' me to do it. It's like a license to steal, a permit to be a Bad Girl and you can't blame me for doin' it."

I thought about that overnight, and I realized that she was right. I do NOT believe that horsehockey about "When rape is unavoidable, lie back and enjoy it."--rape is rape, for Chrissake. But, maybe half the time when some guy was shafting me under that table it felt GOOD, so why not enjoy being a slave as much as I could? Besides, legally a slave cain't be raped anyway; when a free man uses someone else's slave without permission, the only charge is trespassin' on private (as in her privates) property.

I hate to admit it, but that shyster or whoever decided to send us to the Spit-Roast Bar knew what he was doing. After three weeks gettin' rammed in all our openings (ouch), Ellie May and I were pretty docile, trying to enjoy the good stuff and avoid being disciplined. And when somebody finally put us back into those poodle cages and shipped us off again, we were happy or at least hopeful. I figured this has got to be the worst, the low point of my slavery--wherever we're headed, it could only get better from here.

Oops--wrong again!

*****

Texas ranches have a unique smell, a sort of atmosphere I cain't describe but I like it. So, when that panel truck pulled up at the end of a long trip and the doors opened, it SMELLED like ranch. Trouble was, I was used to bein' a human on a ranch, not part of the herd or one of the livestock. This was my introduction to the Spinning Wheel Pony Ranch.

When they let us outta them dog cages, we got to meet a woman about my age but a lot thinner and with a sour face, whose nametag read "Mary Jacobs." She looked at both of us, staring down her nose as if we were some kinda vermin. After five long minutes, she sighed as if resigned to doing something distasteful. Don't know what HER problem was--she wasn't the one collared, cuffed, gagged, and naked on her knees!

"OK, walk 'em over to Tack and suit 'em up." She said, as two beefy wranglers led us off.

Finally, I thought--sounds like I'll get some clothes back. Wrong agin!

Before I could blink, we were "suited up" all right--suited up as pony girls. Instead of coverin' my boobs, that leather rig jest pushed them up while leavin' my nipples and most of the breasts exposed. In fact, those mothers PIERCED my nipples and put in big honking steel rings! Then, the wranglers tied my arms behind my back, with the forearms parallel to each other so I couldn't catch myself if I fell on my face. Plus high-heeled boots with horseshoes on the soles and a tail they attached with a big ol' butt plug. I never thought I would be thankful for those weeks in the Spit-Roast Bar, but at least gettin' corn-holed there ever' night had stretched my rear end enough to accept that tail.

And then, when they pulled out my cloth gag, they gave me a drink of water and replaced the gag with an elaborate headdress and a dang' horse's bit! Every time I got the stupid sulky (with some fat bastard in it) movin', the driver jerked back on the reins and practically tore my lips. Two weeks later, when them nipple rings had healed, the driver hooked up reins on them and it felt as if my TITS were being ripped off! Breast-feeding Ellie May was a picnic by comparison.

That wasn't the worst of it. Here I was, gagged, butt-plugged, almost naked, trying to pull that fat bastard when he suddenly jerked on my mouth and tits. And kitted up like that, these people expected me to not only walk but RUN for hours ever' day while eating nuttin' but a few carrots and two bowls of tasteless slave kibble. Good enough for Ellie May, who was young and in fairly good shape. But, not for a middle aged lady who had been too busy for physical labor like this! Those bastards ran us ragged for weeks on end. I WILL admit all that exercise tightened everything up and I even lost some weight at my waist and caboose, but what a way to do it! (I'm probably biased, but my daughter looked even more beautiful than ever after several months of this treatment.)

We literally worked our asses off (as in those asses shrank and tightened up) for months, gettin' whipped on our butts and boobs whenever those bastards didn't like how hard I tried. If that wasn't bad enough, that bitch Mary Jacobs drove me crazy with horniness--feeling me up, giving me monster shots of some hormones called "horny juice," and telling me all the time that I was "a horny old mare who wants to get fucked." Trouble was, I'd become so used to getting shafted regular-like at the Spit-Roast Bar that I really DID start to miss sex (hey! I'm not that old!) Jest when I couldn't stand it anymore, them bastards tied both Ellie May and me to metal mounting frames, played with our clits and nipples, and LEFT us there. Five minutes later, I had to watch some slave-naked young stallion be led up to POUND the you-know-what out of both of my daughter's lower openings. I didn't know whether to be outraged at him debauching my own adult daughter (who seemed to really enjoy a good shafting) right in front of me or envious that SHE got banged and I was left frustrated. I was about to explode when someone (I never saw him) mounted ME and screwed the bejeebus out of my poor neglected pussy. I was just comin' down from a fantastic climax when whoever it was abruptly jerked his rod out of my cunt and the horsetail out of my butt and used his penis to give my asshole an exam--from the inside. Despite my reluctance to have anal sex as a free woman, by now I was so used to being corn-holed that I almost forgot to be offended when this unknown stud built up to rammin' speed and flooded my insides. How could I stay outraged when it felt so darn good?

After a month of pony training, Ellie May and I had much better stamina and tighter bods. Just when I thought we had mastered this crazy situation, the sadists runnin' that ranch decided to introduce us to pony girl TEAMS. Runnin' in harness beside Ellie May wasn't bad--once I glared at her a few times she started followin' my lead. But then the hands started hitching us up in 4s, 6s, and 8s--rumor in the stables was that we were going to pull the bride and groom away after a weddin'. Who cares? I thought. Many legs make it easier to tow sumthin' anyway, and once in a while one of the hands felt me up in a nice way. Nobody would recognize us rigged up like this, so to repeat myself, who cares?

(Steve Wilson's perspective)

My wedding day, and I couldn't be happier. Professor Hollister, who told me she was in town to visit the Big D, even showed up, smiling and applauding. As B.J. and I exited the Southern Babdist [that's how it's pronounced in East Texas] Church in my hometown, my dad was waiting with a team of eight pony girls hitched to a bridal carriage. He'd assured B.J. that the foundation lawyer had checked--all the ponies were genuinely convicted for serious crimes or enslaved for massive debt--but being a former slave she was understandably reluctant to "exploit or mistreat" slaves. I helped her into the carriage, then my father whispered to me, "Check out the wheelers on this team--jest don't let on to your bride!")

The first thing I noticed when I climbed up beside my new wife was that the wheeler pair were both sporting our ranch's brand--a combined W and H--on their left buttocks. It took me most of the drive from the church to the reception hall to realize where I had seen those shapely asses before, although always before they'd been wearing blue jeans--the wheelers were my ex-step-mother and step-sister, freshly branded for our ranch! Somehow, I managed to keep up a conversation with Billie Jean 'til we got to the hall, where (thankfully) two slave wranglers were waiting to take charge of the team. As I walked B.J. past the ponies and into the hall, I couldn't help winking at Ellie May's face, with a bit in her mouth and reins clipped to her nipples. If looks could kill, I would have been felled on the spot. Considering how often she had tortured me, it was difficult for me to regret pissin' her off jest a little.

After a brief honeymoon, Billie Jean had to go back to Cambridge (Massachusetts, that is) for her second semester of senior year while I stayed home to learn more about the family ranch. Before she left, I came clean and told her that the two ponies (staying in the stall where they used to confine me!) were my ex's, and Dad and I thought a little role reversal was in order for those two cock-teasers turned cock-hungry sluts.

She thought for a long moment, then drew in a breath and smiled at me. "OK, buster, but I expect you to come visit me on Spring Break--and you'd better not be too tired to let me blow and fuck you, ya hear?"

"Yes, Ma'am!" I have the most understanding wife in the world.

*****

These days, Dad and I move about the ranch by driving our own sulkies--Alice pulling him and Ellie May pulling me. In many ways, I think we're much more humane in our treatment of them than they ever were to us, making sure they get water and suntan lotion in the hot weather. No chastity belts! And if it gets TOO hot, we find a nice stretch o' fence line in the shade, where we bend the two ponies over, hands still bound behind their backs and ankles tied well apart, using zip-ties to secure their nipple rings to the fence rail. To explain this in really crude terms, my ex-step-sister enslaved me so that people could fuck me in the ass, so it seems only fitting (she's a tight fit) that I fuck HER in the butt. Meanwhile my ex-step-mother refused to give my Dad anything more than an occasional missionary screw, whereas now she gives him her mouth and ass anytime he wants them. And then we wash off our dicks and swap play-things; "Momma" has a tight twat and even tighter ass for an old mare, and with the voice-converter collar she really whinnies when she gets shafted back there.

The last time we were using the two ponies in the shade, I had removed Ellie May's bit to ensure she could breathe in the heat. She took advantage of this to complain bitterly, "Damn you, anyway. All that poundin' on my butthole HURTS. Why cain't you be like ever' other guy--just get your rocks off and leave me alone?"

I couldn't help laughing. "Don't you remember, slut? You spent so much time edging me because you were teaching me to prolong my erection. Well, aren't you proud of your 4-H project? I'm good for at least 30 more minutes of fuckin' my slut pony. How does THIS feel? (SLAM.)"

(Ellie May's perspective)

Actually, it felt kinda good, but like I said, being a slave had made me really ENJOY gettin' shafted all three ways. I guess there's two morals to this story: don't use your in-laws for 4-H projects, and if you cain't avoid being a slave, pray that your owner has a dick that is big enough for fun--but not too big! Ouch!

(The end)