From Duty to Calling

"Good girl! I knew you'd come around."

He wiped the tears from her eyes, then stepped back. She avoided his gaze in defeat, but he was not fooled. With her, he must not let his guard down. Looping the end of the reins around his wrist, he turned to lead her back the way they had come.

"Let's go! Time to get you home."

...

They made slow progress. Handicapped by her hobble, he often had to help her negotiate the steep stretches of the trail. Frank did not mind. Every time he grabbed her by the front ring of her collar or touched the bare skin of her shoulders, an electric discharge seemed to jolt through him. If her orifices had not been protected by leather and steel, he would have pounced on her then and there. Frustratingly, with every step she took, the jangling of her pussy locks reminded him of what he was denied.

He found himself unable to take his eyes off her for long. Frequently, he would turn back to watch the play of muscles in her sleek legs or admire the swell of her forcibly thrust-out breasts. His gaze was inevitably drawn to the tail that swung hypnotically back and forth behind her. The contrast between her soft, tanned skin and the harsh leather and steel of her harness fascinated him to no end. Rays of sunlight shone through the canopy and glinted off her nose ring. Her chin was wet from the drool that oozed from her bitted mouth. Frank licked his parched lips. How long had she been kept as a ponygirl? Did she ever get a reprieve from this drudgery?

He wondered what it must be like to spend most of your life bound and gagged. To be intimately controlled by rings through your flesh. To have your freedom stripped away and be treated like a dumb beast. What a cruel thing to do to a person! But as cruel as it was, he enjoyed having a beautiful girl at his beck and call. One who, under normal circumstances, would undoubtedly have looked right through him. Now, he had her scurry to his side with a flick of his wrist. The power was intoxicating. Unfortunately, he would soon have to return the ponygirl to her rightful owner.

Although 'rightful' was perhaps not the most appropriate term. But in Frank's experience, 'right' or 'wrong' in the real world depended on which direction the business end of a gun pointed - or, in this instance, which side of a leash you found yourself on. He nodded to himself. Life's not fair, and then you die.

Meanwhile, they had reached the dry creek bed again and were following it upstream. His charge grew more restive with each step. She swerved to the side, then suddenly turned around in an attempt to jerk the reins from his grip. Or she would sneak up on him, trying to knock him over. Resisting her curb bit had to hurt, but she did not seem to care. He had to be constantly on guard against her antics. It was a good thing the rattling of her pussy locks invariably gave her plans away.

Slowly but surely, they drew close to the scene of the accident. Frank realized that he had never asked himself why the sulky had gone off the trail and plunged into the ravine in the first place. Had the pony been so desperate that she engineered such a suicidal stunt to end her torment?

In the distance, he spotted the lifeless figure crumbled on the ground. A gasp from behind told him that the ponygirl had noticed it as well. Frank turned to face her. Her feverish eyes darted around, and she turned pale under her tan. Had her pony boots had heels, she would have dug them in. But as it was, she simply dropped to her knees and refused to get up again, no matter how hard he tugged on the reins. Maybe she would be more cooperative if he clipped the reins to her nose ring? But something in her expression made him pause. He crouched at her side and studied her face.

"What's the matter? Feeling sorry for what you've done?" He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the body.

She hissed, and her eyes narrowed in scorn. Remorse, then, had nothing to do with her distress. That left fear. Frank looked at the situation from her point of view. She had tried to escape and probably believed to have almost succeeded. Defeated by shrubbery. That sucked. Of course, it was naive of her to think she could slip out from Epwell's clutches so easily. She had gotten a taste of imagined freedom, and now she was being returned into the hands of her tormentors. Worse, she had killed one of them. No doubt, they would punish her severely.

What form of punishment did she face? She probably had a pretty shrewd inkling of how they dealt with bad-tempered, problem ponies like her. One look at her rigid features convinced him that it would be bad. If her bondage had allowed it, she would probably have curled up in a fetal position. Very bad, then. Perhaps they might even put her down for killing her driver? He shivered when a chill went through him.

Frank took her chin in his hand and forced her to face him. His eyes bored into hers.

"Listen! It's not your fault. It was an accident. Your driver made a mistake and lost control. The cart went off the trail. You were lucky, he wasn't. He was thrown out of the cart and smashed his head on a boulder."

She gave him a quizzical look. Slowly, understanding and a timid hint of hope dawned on her face. He gently squeezed her chin.

"Under the circumstances, I doubt there will be an official investigation. That means no coroner's report to contradict my version."

She stared at him with brimming eyes, then thrust her upper body forward and nestled her head against his shoulder. Her action took him by surprise. He tensed, but apprehension turned into delight when she started to nuzzle his neck. She had to nibble around her bit, which made for an awkward kiss, but he appreciated the sentiment.

Her sudden movement had trapped his hand between them. Acting on instinct, he cupped her right breast in his palm and caressed the nipple with his thumb. He traced the circumference of the shackle that pierced her firm breast, fascinated by the contrast between cool metal and hot skin. The ponygirl let out a throaty moan and pressed her body against his, encouraging him to step up his efforts. Obligingly, he fondled the hardening nipple between his thumb and forefinger. His other hand snaked between her thighs. He pressed the side of his hand against her pussy, pushing up against the locks that closed her off.

A needy purr escaped her throat. She squeezed her legs together to capture his wrist. Thrusting her pelvis forward, she began to grind against his hand. The locks' metal casings dragged uncomfortably over his skin. How did that feel like for her? He turned his hand and insinuated his middle finger between her hot and slick labia. It was a tight squeeze, only rendered possible since she was already wet. Since she became a pony, she had probably learned to snatch pleasure wherever and whenever it was offered.

His questing finger encountered even more hard metal. He deemed it unlikely that her clit, of all things, had escaped the piercer's attentions. Judging from what he had seen so far, her bud probably played host to another shackle-type ring. She bucked when he nudged it, validating his suspicions.

"Ahmm!"

Clearly, the ponygirl liked what he was doing. She splayed her legs and opened herself up for him. He rubbed his finger along her slit while his other hand kneaded her breast. She rocked her hips back and forth in counterpoint to his own movements. Her rhythm became increasingly frantic, her guttural moans more urgent. When it came to petting, she obviously preferred a heavy-handed approach to a more subtle one. Perhaps the constant stimulation from the piercing had left her clit less sensitive?

She made a pleading sound and pushed down against his hand. Taking the hint, he curled his finger and entered her. For a moment, she went completely rigid, then a shudder coursed through her body. Pushed over the edge by his last move, her pent-up sexual energy burst into a powerful orgasm. Her body reared up against his. She burrowed her face in his shoulder, her bridle digging into his skin. A long-drawn-out whimper escaped her throat before all tension drained from her body, and she slumped against him like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Frank gently extricated his finger from her folds. His hand glistened with her secretions, and the musk of her arousal hit his nose. As best he could, he wiped his hand clean on her thigh. It took a full minute before the ponygirl stirred again. He patiently waited while she recovered. Given the ferocity of her sexual discharge, it probably had been months since she had been allowed any release. Moreover, he suspected that her need had gone beyond sexual gratification. She had been looking for a tangible kind of comfort to ease her anxiety and frustration.

Finally, she straightened and looked him in the eye.

"Hangh uhh."

"It's OK. Now, be a good pony. No more antics."

He stood up and tugged lightly on her reins. Once again, he had to admire the fluid grace with which the ponygirl rose to her feet. She was calmer now, but far from resigned to her fate. He was convinced that, sooner or later, her rebellious spirit would resurface. It would take a kind but firm hand to reform her for good. When they continued on their way, Frank began to whistle an off-key tune.

Maybe life as one of Epwell's henchmen was not so bad after all. He was a country boy at heart. Having grown up on a farm, he had always enjoyed working with animals. Everyone agreed he was particularly good with horses, which had earned him a reputation as a 'horse whisperer'. Now, he felt it was time for a career change, to return to his roots. He felt he had found his true calling at last. As luck would have it, he knew of a ranch where a vacancy for a pony trainer had just opened up. In for a penny...