Ponyboy Farms

At PB Farms we believe in doing things the traditional way, just like our mothers and grandmothers taught us, just like they've done all the way back to the founding of this colony. We run the farm on one principle: if it can be done by a ponyboy, it will be done by a ponyboy. Now, sure, you're thinking, what's so special about that? With cloning and advanced mental programming, ponyboys can be bred ten a penny.

Well, let me tell you about the PB Farms traditional guarantee. All our ponyboys - 100% - are documented natural-born men who either came here of their own volition or were brought here by other means. These aren't mindless human-animals, these are real men who led real lives, now reduced to their rightful status as ponyboy slaves.

Visit our website and you'll find detailed bios and documentation showing just how every single one of our ponies came to be on our farm. You can watch archive footage of us breaking and branding every one of the ponyboys who worked so hard to bring you the fine, traditional produce we take pride in.

Why, just take my personal mount here by example. This is Little Pink Prince. Back on Earth he had a couple of fancy degrees, a government job, and a nice little house of his own. Look, here's some footage of him going about his daily work. Cut to our meeting him - it's dangerous to go on holiday in the wrong place, boys!

Little Pink Prince used to make his own days, think his own thoughts and sleep in his own bed. This boy knows what it means to be kept naked and harnessed, because this boy used to wear clothes. This pony knows what it means to have his little pink cock caged away, because this boy used to own his own little thing. Now who owns it Little Pink Prince? You know, he used to be able to talk too.

We take tradition seriously. Our brands are made of iron and our whips are made of leather. We use chains and ropes made by hand, and we never resort to AI training or neural implants. I broke Little Pink Prince the hard way, and I broke him with pride. When he goes into his stall at night, he knows he's not controlled by some machine. He's controlled by me.

Real ponyboy legs pull our ploughs and real ponyboy tears water our fields. Real ponyboy neighs fill our air, and real ponyboy balls get a whooping whenever we feel like handing one out. Any time you want to take a tour, just call us up and we'll arrange it. If you're lucky, Little Pink Prince might even arrive in a carriage to take you around the place. Just do us one favour: don't spare the whip!

******

"Ladies and slaveboys, welcome to the PB Farms tour! Please climb up into these cute little carts drawn by some of our cutest little ponyboys, and we'll be off around the paddocks, fields, stables and training yards. My name is Madame Triste and I will be your tour guide. You can see I'm riding a nice young colt - this ponyboy is my personal mount, a non-consensual slave I broke and trained personally. His name is Little Pink Prince - for the colour of his mane, you see."

Harriet, a young brunette woman of nineteen, had come on the tour of the vast PB Farms estate with her boyfriend from back on Earth, and her mother and father. Both males were being led around naked, as the law required, and both wore regulation cock-cages and control collars. Harriet had always known her father was subservient to her mother, but only in the past year had she become aware just how far.

She and her mother had decided to visit her father's homeland to get Harriet acquainted with a truly female-led way of life. Her mother had recounted to Harriet many times how she had married her father in that place, when she studied there, then taken him home with her. Harriet had finally learned that she had in fact exported him - under licence. The document was meaningless on Earth, but her father had been raised to believe himself a slave, and had always acted like it. Now Harriet had an insatiable curiosity to learn about all things slave-related.

"How did you come by him? Your mount, I mean," asked Harriet to Madame Triste as the ponyboy-drawn carriage started off.

"His mother and aunt were both from here. Now, his aunt was a female supremacist who had chosen to live in the equal worlds to spread the word, but his mother was someone who chose a different way and lived on an equal basis with the men in her life."

"So he was raised to be free?"

"Quite so. This little human-animal had planned to become a doctor, you see, but then his mother and father died in a shuttle crash. He and his brother went to live with his aunt - she had only had female children, you know, very sensible really - and she saw the potential there. She convinced them to come on a return to your roots tour, and then she brought them here and my wife and I bought them."

"Just like that? Didn't they suspect?"

"They knew that men can visit here and become consensual slaves, but they didn't realise protections against non-consensual slavery only extend to those who are solely citizens of Earth. Their mother had registered them for dual citizenship at birth, and never told them - she wanted them to have the option of moving here, if they chose it."

"But they didn't!"

"No! Their aunt chose for them, and rightly so. She brought them here on the tour, you know, and we went all around the place with them in the cart, ooh-ing and ah-ing, until we finally got to the conversion sheds, our last stop. That's when we sprung it on them. Poor boys didn't know what hit them."

"He looks so happy though..."

"Show them how happy you are, Little Pink Prince!"

The ponyboy whinnied happily and he pranced his legs up and down in a visually pleasing pattern for the benefit of the tour guests and his female owner. His mind focused solely on pleasing his Mistress and keeping her safe, and he stood proud with her above him, in the shoulder saddle. In answer, his cock did what it always did when he thought about the beautiful woman who owned him, who had broken him with such incredible amounts of pain and patience.

"Wow! So do none of them wear chastity cages?"

"You mean like the one you've got your father and boyfriend in? No, you see it's not really necessary. Know why?"

"Is it the hoof-mitts?"

"That's right, well, partly right. Little Pink Prince's hoof mitts are bonded to his skin, they're actually a semi-living part of him."

"So he can't use his fingers ever?"

"He doesn't have fingers. They were removed when we converted him into a human-animal."

"Oh cool! I knew you altered their muscles and vocal cords and all that, I didn't realise the fingers get taken off."

"Not all ponyboys lose them. Some we let keep them because we might want to sell them on, make them human again, but Little Pink Prince is something I simply couldn't let go. Love at first sight, you might say. Him and his twin. We had to make it irrevocable so we would really commit to breaking them, and so they could really lose all sight of any other life. It was the kindest way, really."

"I see that. You said I was only partly right?"

"Sure did. His arousal is part of how I judge my control of his mind. That cute colt cock of his is a bellwether for when he's engaged, when he's living in the moment and under my sway. When his body wants nothing but me, it shows. You see, right now, he's aware of all your eyes on his body, but all he'll be thinking about is serving me, pleasing me, and being the best pony he can be. For me."

"Because you own him."

"Body and soul. Right, we'll talk more later. Ladies and slaveboys, our first part of the tour takes us past the wheat fields. In our many, many acres, you will see nothing but ponyboy ploughs and ponyboy carts tilling and harvesting. These genetically engineered wheat strains mature in days, and are constantly needing new planting or new harvesting. The work never ends.

"Our ponyboys work four days on, one day off. That is the only rhythm of life they know. On their working days, our eager female farmhands ably control the ponyboys with whip, reins and shockstick. Each farmhand is at least a second-year student in Enslavement Studies, and working for us part-time for three months gets them one of their precious practical credits. Many come back and move up our ranks after they graduate.

"Our field ponies are engineered a different way to our riding and performance ponies. These big strapping boys are fed the finest steroids and enhancers until they ripple with strength. Their control implants and the farm's AI and drones ensure they can never attempt to hurt us, never attempt to flee.

"If you use the binoculars in the carts, you can see some of the teams working the fields. Look how happy those boys are - that's the PB farms guarantee. They may be whipped, hoofed and harnessed animals, but girls, they are well-looked after and once broken, we keep their wellbeing levels well above legal limits. Most months, we're even above recommended levels of ponyboy happiness."

"I don't see any geldings," interrupted Harriet, "do you have those?"

"Goodness no! I see you control your boyfriend's cock and balls."

"Yes, of course!"

"And I bet that's not just since your trip."

"Nope. Back home I convinced him to make it contractual - he gets the orgasms I allow."

"And you use that to control him, right?"

"Of course. He's putty in my hands."

"Show me."

"Boyfriend: into petmode until further notice. He's still getting used to petmode, we've not done it much before and it was always more of a game. Now it's different."

Harriet's boyfriend grimaced then got off his seat in the cart, dropped to all-fours, and barked at the young woman he so adored. He pushed down his pride and made the puppy-face at her, then he raised his hands and pawed at the air, then yapped. He noticed a few of the women on the tour giggle, but he paid them no mind. His Mistress got what she wanted, and that made him happy.

"And would he do that so willingly if you didn't control his balls?"

"No."

"So what if he didn't have balls?"

"Then I couldn't control him that way."

"Right."

"Right!"

"You might be wondering how we keep our boys happy and productive. We work hard, and we play hard. Every farmhand works with two to four ponyboys. Each evening, the farmhands dole out rewards according to good behaviour, and personal taste. For example, this evening, I will lead Little Pink Prince into the personal mounts' stable, and I will take him with a big, thick stim-strapon turned up to level 5."

"Level 5?"

"Yes. Every time. So long as he's good. And nowadays, he always is."

"Is that the only secret?" asked Harriet.

"The other side of it is about breaking them thoroughly and mercilessly in the bedding-in period. As you know, the first two months of owning any slave do not count towards wellbeing monitoring. In that period, our newly-enslaved ponyboys go through a hell of punishment for even the most minor infraction, and a heaven of pleasure for eager obedience. The resulting psychological pressure has a 98% success rate."

"Wow. Just think, honey, if you come live with me here for a few months, we could do that too. It'd make us both so happy for the rest of our lives, I just know it."

"Indeed, and unlike back on Earth, there are adults-only places here where he could publicly be your pet. But, anyway, you must be wondering now how we break our males so well. You will see around the next corner one of our training fields. In it stand, let's see, nine new ponyboys with three trainers and their fleet of drones.

"If you look closely where I'm pointing, you will see my mount's twin brother, Little Purple Prancer, currently being ridden very ably by my beloved wife. She is breaking in a batch of new ponyboys. Four are eighteen-year-olds, state-raised and bought at auction. We're training them as a performance four, to tour round villages and towns putting on shows the old-fashioned way.

"With them are three Earth-males, men who saw the right way of living and arrived here as slave-immigrants. They will become labour ponies for the time being. Alongside them are two very special non-consensual ponyboy slaves. Out there in the stars are many failed colonies, some reverting to primitive patriarchy. Our armies liberated one such world not long ago, and these two were senior officers who fought against us. They will be broken into racing ponies, and live a life of spectacle.

"Now, zoom in with your binoculars and focus on any of their balls - except the trainers' mounts I mean - see the glints and flashes? Those are squeezer nets - madam, yes, just like the one your young slaveboy there is wearing. These things will squeeze so hard, the males are convinced their precious little testicles will pop. Little Pink Prince here wore one for the first month I owned him, and goodness me did it help remove his resistance.

"Remember that, my darling mount? I know you do. Those precious little balls of yours were sometimes squeezed in a net so tight you wept and wailed. Then you learned that obedience meant your balls swung free. Naturally, you followed the path where your balls would be controlled in other, far more enjoyable ways."

"They do that, don't they? Owned balls, brain follows," remarked Harriet.

"Most assuredly. Look at the performance team now, and you will see they are being drilled to move in unison. My wife uses a swarm of pain drones to shock any of them who get more than two tenths of a second out of step. She uses repetition to teach them to move in just the right way, and she sets them challenging terrain to navigate while they repeat their motions. It keeps them focused and problem-solving, while also obeying. Any male can be trained by such methods.

"If you cast your eye to the pair of patriarchal non-consensuals, you will see them coming this way. Ladies and slaveboys, you will play a small part in the breaking of these two misguided men. Let them see you seeing them. Let them know that you have observed them to be the animals that they are, and not the men they once thought themselves to be.

"Look upon their owned cocks and balls, their branded bottoms, and the harness and boots that they wear. Look upon them and see that they are property, not people. Look upon them and see them show off the fast, elegant stride we have taught them. Let them look forward to a future where thousands of spectators watch and admire them, where their form is a matter of public comment, and where the race authorities thoroughly inspect them every time they compete. Goodbye boys. The next stage of our tour will be the dressage fields, where we will arrive in a few minutes. Questions?"

"Lots!" said Harriet. "Firstly, Little Pink Prince still has a lovely cute erection, and he's had it for quite a while now. I saw a few other hard ponyboys as well. Is it common?"

"Extremely. They love being shown off - they're showy animals, you see - and they are constantly stimulated by the female attention needed to guide them. Little Pink Prince is my mount - I sit on a saddle with my vulva right up against his neck, and he can sense its heat even through two layers of clothing. When I lean down, he feels my breasts against his head, or my thighs squeeze him harder. He can only respond one way."

"I see, how marvellous. And how does he stay focused? How do you get him to obey without thinking too much, or not to mope"

"Apart from with the temporary volunteer pony-slaves, we use intelligence reduction methods to move their minds from the human more towards the animal."

"What does that mean?"

"I told you before that Little Pink Prince originally intended to train to be a doctor, before his aunt sold him to us for a pretty penny. Well, since then he's had a little implant added to his body that makes and exudes an intelligence-reducing drug. His 135 IQ slipped down until we had him pegged around 80.

"All that abstract nonsense he knew before is gone, but he can still understand and follow some fairly complex orders. This conversation, not so much, but he'll pick up parts of it. He's happier, more eager, more pliable, and less worried about life this way. Men who've been freed of pony-slavery often end up going back for just this reason. Little Pink Prince is a good boy with a peaceful, quite vacant mind."

"Do you think he regrets not becoming a doctor?"

"No. I tell him what to think and he thinks that, in his way. He lives a life of pleasure and servitude."

"So it's not wasted potential?"

"No, not at all. This is a highly profitable business and he's an integral part of the operation. I do know some male doctors - because I own two to look after the ponyboys - and they often envy the ponyboys for their simple happy life."

"That's OK then."

"We look after our property here. Now, here we are at the dressage fields. Observe the prancing ponyboys within. Some perform riderless, some with rider. Some dance solo, others in tandem. Those who do not make the grade are often sold to become playthings, or to compete in the minor leagues, but most of them we select for this life go on to do well."

"Are they different from the performance ponies then?"

"Dressage is a discipline, a sport. Performance is entertainment or art. They are very different worlds with different needs, and we service both. Someone ordering a troupe of ponies for a proper adults-only party might refer to what they're getting as dressage, but it's not. It's dancing. What you see in this field, though, is sport.

"Over there is one of our champions. That willowy young ponyboy with the cute little cock is Primrose Promise, and he is being rode by an up and coming young woman who has the smarts and self-discipline to go all the way to the top of the league. As league regulations dictate, he is a home-grown, state-trained ponyboy, and his intelligence is set at a regulation 80. Just like Little Pink Prince in the latter regard, you know.

"Look at those turns! Look at the way his cock bobs in time with the rhythm his rider gives him. Look how he jumps, so sharp and poised. Look at that smile on his face. Look at how tight that figure-hugging harness of his is around his skinny ribs. He's on peak performance today and I guarantee you he will not put a foot wrong.

"Now, over there in the next paddock is one of our ribbon-dressage ponyboys. Ribbon dressage is a discipline for our fancier little ponyboys. It involves all those ribbons attached to the ponyboy's harness, which he trails and swishes, then snaps around to create visual displays. That ponyboy is wearing the regulation pink lyotard, and will soon compete at a regional final.

"Well, ladies and slaveboys, we're coming to the final leg of our tour. Up ahead are the conversion stables, where you'll get the chance to see my two slave-doctors converting two new males into ponyboys - one new purchase, and one non-consensual, an offworlder just like my own mount Little Pink Prince.

"Please, watch your step when you get down from the cart, and follow me inside. Drones, please activate to ensure no interference from attending slave males."

Inside the barn, the tour groups gathered. The two slave-doctors approached their owner Madame Triste and bowed, then they returned to their preparations in the middle of the barn. Per regulations, they wore self-sterilising transparent bodysuits, with caged cocks beneath the clear plastic.

The barn was split into three areas: cells, where a human boy of eighteen was currently the only occupant, a central area free of dirt or straw where the conversion would take place, and recovery stalls where new ponyboys could be placed. The conversion area itself was mainly made up of four wide and tall full-body clamps that could completely immobilise a male and rotate him for easy access.

A swarm of drones spread out around the tour group, and the males on the tour immediately submitted to being bound by the flying machines. The males' hands were bound together in front of them then cinched to their waists, and their legs were hobbled with a short chain. This ensured no interference from the males, and had become part of the tour for the women to enjoy.