Breeding the Pony Girl, Pt. 10

[Carl Bradford]

(This story is set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is commonplace for serious crime, unredeemed debt, or voluntary self-indenture. Eighteen years of age is the minimum for anyone in this world to be enslaved or have any intimate/sexual contact with slaves. This is pure fantasy.)

(Thanks to Joe Doe for suggesting the plot device of this episode as well as the letter from Tex Rider.)

(Hailie Wilson’s perspective)

I try to be a decent person—friendly, honest, kind to others. There are a lot of nice people in the world, but there are also some stinkers, people who are so unhappy and unsure of themselves that they have to convince themselves they’re somehow better than others. You know what I mean—men who think they’re superior to women (Ha!), white folk who think they’re better than Hispanics or African-Americans (an equally dumb idea), spoiled rich people who try to inflict misery on anyone who has to provide a service to them. As a woman of color who works in a blue-collar job, I encounter a lot of these self-deluded people, but I usually just ignore their attitude. At least my bosses aren’t like that.

Throughout my young lifetime (I’m 25), there’s been another group that EVERYONE can feel superior to, if they so wish—slaves. You can’t be born a slave because of your race. Instead, the 34th Amendment permits states like my native Texas to enslave anyone over the age of 18 for crime, indebtedness, or just volunteering for indenture. That means a slave can be from any racial or ethnic background; I’ve even heard of well-intentioned white liberals who volunteered to be auctioned off as slaves to help finance Black-owned plantations established for restitution! It boggles my mind to think about naked white women chopping cotton under the supervision of overseers—mostly Black—who can use those white women just like Thomas Jefferson used Sally Hemings. What goes around . . .

So nobody even blinks at the sight of me, an African-American woman, handling slaves of all races and genders. I’m good at my job, training human slaves to be championship pony girls (and a few pony boys and bois). The Spinning Wheel Pony Ranch is one of two dozen such establishments dedicated to harness racing with a side of sexual service by the ponies. I try to be firm but humane, not making the pony slaves any more miserable than their situation dictates. Within limits, the trainers at this ranch are permitted and even EXPECTED to treat the slaves as sex objects. Some of the horny young guys (now there’s a redundancy) where I work get several blowjobs a day, but I’m not interested in exploiting my unfortunate charges that way.

On Saturday evenings I get paid overtime to work with the most unusual of my pony girls—the owner of the Spinning Wheel, Lois Spalding. Of course, she’s not legally a slave, although her bottom has the ranch’s brand on it, and if she’s not careful she might end up wearing a collar for real. I don’t fully understand it, but Lois (aka Pony Girl Ginger) gets off on pretending to be a helpless, rightless, half-naked pony who pulls a sulky or fucks on demand. At least Lois is honest about what she wants, instead of enslaving herself like those liberal women who pretend to be so self-sacrificing and politically correct, volunteering for Black reparations when actually they’re dreaming of some kind of Mandingo hook-up. Still, I worry about my girl Lois—even if she doesn’t get enslaved for real, she may suffer serious physical or mental damage playing these games.

Three months ago, Lois took a big risk and pretended to be one of the pony girls that her ranch regularly rents out as entertainment to the Breeding Barn Café. She enjoyed being tacked up with bit, bridle, and ponytail butt plug, with me feeling her up and talking dirty to her as if she were any other pony slut. The fondling was intended to arouse her before she put on a show for hundreds of restaurant patrons, a show where well-hung pony stallions stuffed all three of her openings. After which she got rented out to wealthy patrons for individual use (aka pony prostitution). Most of these encounters turned out OK, although her ex-husband paid for the chance to beat and mount an auburn-haired slave who looked AMAZINGLY like his former spouse.

I think that encounter scared Lois, although I won’t guarantee how long she STAYS scared. The girl gives new meaning to the phrase “Can’t keep her pants on.” For the moment, however, she’s too afraid to play any pony games (where’s Rudolf when you need him?) off her own land. In turn, that means she keeps wanting ME to treat her more and more like a bimbo pony slut (sorry, that’s how slave handlers talk—ir’s all part of convincing the slaves that they should enjoy being used sexually.)

We’re well beyond our first cautious evening rides, when I was unwilling to whack her, insult her, and fondle her. I gradually realized that my part-time pretend pony actually LIKES to be treated that way. Lois isn’t looking for pain, although she sometimes thanked me afterwards because I had strapped her butt and called her slutty names just as I would any other pony who didn’t perform to standard. In fact, that’s what she enjoyed, the sense of being a real pony slave subject to all the controls applied to her livestock. Once I understood that, I really started to tease and belittle her that way; it turned both of us on to reverse our usual power roles, but I guess it means I’m just as willing as sexists and racists to look down on my “inferiors.” So sue me—it’s fun and she wants me to do it.

When we go out for a ride, Lois is usually wearing both a bit and a conversion collar that turns any words into pony sounds. A typical “conversation” consists of her whinnying and stomping her high-heeled pony boots in response to my talking down to her: “Don’t my fingers feel nice in your juicy slave cunt? You’re so wet and turned on. Don’t worry, baby girl, we’ll find someone with a nice big cock to shove up your horny butt—you’ll love that, won’t you? You’re such an eager ass whore,” And so on.

As I said, I had to overcome my natural reluctance to treat anyone, let alone a nice person who was legally free, like that. Then, this last Saturday, before the usual pony ride, my immediate boss, stable manager Mary Jacobs, took me aside and told me what Lois REALLY expected me to do with and to her. Because Lois (Mizz Spalding when her clothes are on) carefully regulates just how much sex each if her ponies get, Mary gave me a “permission slip” authorizing a male ranch hand/trainer to use any or all of “Ginger’s” openings this evening. The slip was signed “Lois Spalding”—in effect, she had given me written permission to turn her into an animal and have one of her own employees fuck her slave stupid!

Then Mary told me that SHE had selected Ginger’s “date” for the evening—Chad Warwick.

*****

(Lois Spalding’s perspective)

When Chad Warwick first applied for a part-time job at the Spinning Wheel, he looked so young (roughly 15) that I personally checked with the county records office AND the high school to ensure that he was, in fact, 18 years of age. He had reached that age in January of his senior year, making him old enough to work in the slave industry.

Lots of 18-year-olds are big, strapping guys, but not Chad, who was about my height (5 foot 10). He was rail thin and pimply faced with birth control glasses—the classic nerd. He couldn’t do much about his appearance, but he certainly tried hard at the job. He put in about 90 hours on his spring break learning the laws and procedures so that he could qualify for the basic slave handler’s license—which, I will admit, Chad passed on the first try. Since then, he’d been working weekends, usually as a stable guard who looks after the ponies when they’re locked into their stalls. I leave selection and training of such folks to Mary and her department heads, so I’d never even formally met the boy (he was legally a man, aged 18, but it was hard to think of him as such.)

I REALLY wanted to get laid as a pony, which is why I gave that permission slip to Mary. I was daydreaming about one of the older, manly trainers who worked for me, but Mary shot that idea down. She pointed out that I had better not service anyone who knew me very well, since even wearing a safety helmet my red hair and body shape were distinctive. Besides, the stable boss argued, a REAL pony has no say in who uses her—just leave it to Hailie and her to pick some part-timer, who was unlikely to recognize me in pony mode.

I know I’ve written before that I enjoy being humiliated, but there’s a limit even for me. Imagine the scene that Saturday evening: I’m all tacked up, forearms bound behind my back, bunghole full of a tail plug, and both bit and tit reins available for the ranch hands to force instant compliance with their orders. The voice converter collar has reduced me to a dumb animal that can only make horse noises. Inside, I finally understand how my pony girls feel when they know they’re actually going to get LAID, and they’re hoping it will be Stud’s turgid intruder filling all their holes.

Instead, though, Hailie steps out for a minute and comes back with Chad, at 18 probably the youngest and scrawniest of my employees. He’s 12 years younger than me, I pay his salary, and yet when I see that piece of paper in his hands I realize that I had authorized him to use me as his sex toy for the evening! I feel like dying of embarrassment AND frustration.

Hailie is stage whispering to him so that I can hear most of what she’s saying—how older mares (wait a minute, I haven’t foaled yet) have more experience and they’re so grateful that they give the free man a REAL ride. She apparently believes that Chad is still a virgin, and she’s probably right—I wouldn’t have fucked him back in high school or college, that’s for sure. Then she tells him she’ll be back in 45 minutes or so, and closes the stall door, leaving me blushing deep red while this KID (yes, he’s technically an adult, age 18) looks at me.

For a moment I see uncertainty in his eyes, but then he suddenly becomes resolute. I shy away when he reaches for my reins, but he’s not having any of THAT—Mary has trained him never to put up with any resistance from the pony sluts! He grabs my four reins and pulls HARD, causing me to squeal in horsy language (thanks to the voice converter) and fall to my knees in submission, my nipples on fire. In a flash, the short strap hanging from his equipment belt is in his hand and walloping my backside. I notice that he disciplines like a real pro—no hesitation, no emotion, hard enough to punish me without breaking the skin or really injuring me. And I deserved it, too—his reaction is entirely correct, and I’m humiliated all over again by my failure to perform my chosen role.

Chad reminds me that an “old mare” like me should never resist—he tells me that I’m a useless, over-the-hill, ass whore of a slave cunt who should be overjoyed to serve him even if it means licking his boots. Funny thing is—he’s right! I no longer see a pimply-faced 18-yer-old but a real master who is in complete control. Remind me to give this guy a raise; he’s a natural slave handler.

At the moment, though, he wants another form of raise—he pops the bit out of my mouth and replaces it with a respectable-sized stiffy. For a few minutes my head is moving back and forth as he pumps my face. Then he orders me into Slave 4’s, kneeling doggie-style on the bunk. In a moment, this kid turned master is balls deep inside my slave cunt and we’re both having the time of our lives.

He doesn’t last too long, probably because he’s never fucked anything other than his hand before. Still, he’s got me just as worked up as he is, so I climax before he coats my cunt canal with cum.

Hailie reappears with suspicious promptness, confirming my fears that she’s watched my subjugation on the TV. As Chad carefully mops my dripping thighs, she talks to me as the bimbo pony Ginger. “Did you enjoy getting fucked, little bitch?” I toss my head and paw the floor, telling the honest truth.

Hailie giggles at my reaction. “You really are a total slut, Ginger. Well, if you behave yourself MAYBE you can return to your stall later this evening and give Master Chad a real pony blowjob.” Son of a gun—after an abbreviated sulky trip outside, she brings me back to “my” stall, just in time for Chad to face-fuck me. And she’s right, I DO enjoy it, right down to displaying his goo on my tongue until he gives me permission to swallow. Then she gives Chad some song and dance about how Ginger works in various places and wouldn’t be spending the night in her stall. I think both Chad and I are disappointed!

I worried that Chad would some day encounter the ranch owner and see the resemblance—I don’t want to sound arrogant, but I think he would remember the cunt he used to lose his virginity. Fortunately, he was accepted to college at Texas Southern. So I wrote him a brilliant recommendation—which he deserved—and got Jesse Foster to hire him at the Longhorn Slave Market.

*****

I tell you this story about Chad to show how I tried to limit myself when I indulged my “hobby.” Of course, Sam Houston Sterling of the Agriculture Department came by to give Ginger her quarterly “probing” interview. That was always fun, but other than Chad, Mr. Sterling, and pony training under Mistress Hailie, I’ve been a good girl about my addiction. (I will admit that I removed the padding from my office chair, just so I can rub my butt against the hard wood, stroking the edges of my brand through my jeans.)

Instead, I’ve been cautiously—or perhaps incautiously—developing a “normal,” non-submissive relationship with Richard Jameson, who owns his family’s training ranch. It started with Mary insisting that I had to telephone and meet with him personally about training some of my ponies at his spread. I should be annoyed at her matchmaking, except that it worked. We enjoyed each other’s company so much that we began to hang out together at industry functions, race meets, and so on. Before I knew it, each of us was making up excuses to telephone or see the other. We had a lot in common, not only our business but our backgrounds, interests, sense of humor—you name it.

Only once did Richard bring up the subject of “Ginger,” saying that she showed potential as a trotter. When I changed the subject, he didn’t press me. He’s such a smart guy, and we’ve now spent hours together, so sometimes I don’t see how he CAN’T know my secret. I’ve even been tempted to confess to him, but what if I’ve read him wrong? What if he doesn’t know, and becomes so disgusted that he stops talking to me or even tells other people? So I keep drifting along, enjoying his company and too afraid to risk losing him.

Two weeks ago, it finally got personal. He took me out to dinner and we talked about everything, from the recent increase in pony rustling (mostly taking slaves down to Mexico) to the Astros’ chances this season to the Texas Freedom Foundation being put together to help former slaves regain their lives. When he walked me to my hotel room, he didn’t ask to come in (darn it) but he DID take me in his arms and kiss me, tongue and all. I know that sounds like we’re in high school rather than adults who manage sexually-charged businesses, but it’s got to be the most romantic thing that’s happened to me since . . . I can’t remember. I already knew Richard was fantastic in bed, but now I realized he was equally good as a kisser, a lover. I suddenly realized that this was a large part of what I’d been missing. Yes, I love it when a master uses every opening a slave can offer, not to mention thighs, boobs, butt crack, and so on. But I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a master (or mistress) KISSING a slave. That was especially true in my personal obsession of pony girls, who are reduced to animal status and mounted from the rear. I didn’t worry about that at the time, of course—I was too busy kissing and clinging to him to think about anything else.

The next time we met, we went straight to necking and fondling, and THIS time we ended up in my hotel room. To keep my clothes on and conceal my branding, I implied that it was my time of the month, so I slid down to my knees and let Richard tickle my tonsils with his fleshy tongue-depressor. Recalling what he had said to “Ginger” about how an expert cocksucker should act, I put a huge grin on my well-stuffed mouth as I stared upward into his eyes, doing my best to give him the impression that swallowing his sword was the greatest experience of my life. Which didn’t take much acting on my part—giving pleasure to this magnificent, gentle guy was something that both Lois AND Ginger could enjoy.

By the time he thanked me profusely and left me alone that night, I was in lust and probably love, and I was convinced that Richard MUST know that I was Ginger. If nothing else, he’d had two blowjobs from Ginger and one from Lois, and surely he would recognize my technique. I began to think that maybe I could have it all, but I just hadn’t summoned the nerve to talk with him about it.

*****

And then I got a letter from Tex Rider (his real name, I kid you not) of the Dancer Ranch. 15 years ago, Tex had saved my Dad from financial ruin with an interest-free loan during a temporary cash flow problem. Daddy and the teenaged version of Lois both swore that we owed him a big one: anything he wanted, anytime, anywhere. It seemed like such a little thing to please Tex—he wanted to borrow one of my ponies for a day, to use in a parade and then at a fair booth.

A little background: when slavery returned to Texas decades ago, the Agriculture Department began to certify ordinary medical doctors—anyone who had finished his or her internship and paid a $20 application fee—as slave veterinarians. By now, however, the demand for such vets had grown so great that the supply of MDs willing to settle for such a low-status branch of medicine was insufficient. Why bandage whip marks on slaves when you could be a family practice physician or surgeon? So, the University of Texas—which had never been allowed to have a “normal” Veterinary School that might compete with A&M—had started a program to turn out genuine SLAVE veterinarians, and the medical and agricultural authorities had gone along with it. The graduates could practice human medicine, but only on humans wearing collars.

Tex’s youngest daughter, Abby, was in the second class at this new program. For the annual Texas Slave Expo in Houston, Abby and her classmates were planning two different activities. First, they wanted a twelve-pony team to pull a lightweight copy of the Conestoga wagon in a parade, followed by using those ponies as exhibits in their veterinary booth at the Expo itself. So, Tex signed up to assemble the pony team consisting of different ethnicities and hair colors. He had a black-haired Chinese pony, a blond Nordic pony, a dark-haired Hispanic girl, and so on. He was looking for long-legged, big-titted show ponies of various complexions to attract attention.

So, what did he want from the Spinning Wheel? You guessed it. He had heard a rumor that my ranch had a red-haired pony—Ginger! In his e-mail, Tex wrote,

“In addition to the parade, the kids would probably use her in their booth to show off some of their vet skills, but they'd go easy on the whip and get her back to you in a tick. A lot of horse trading goes on during those shows, so if you want to set a price on her Abby will be happy to show her off to any potential buyers, or just let you review the bids later.”

For three months, I’d been a relatively good girl about keeping my particular perversion to myself. Now came an offer I literally couldn’t refuse—I genuinely owed Tex big time, and if I refused to lend him Ginger it would cause more trouble than I would risk by cooperating. Sigh. Truth was, of course, that I really WANTED to be Pony Girl Ginger in a parade! So, I was easy to convince: he had me at “borrow a pony girl.” At the very least, I would spend a day under complete slave discipline, and with any luck one of the students or visitors to the Expo would feel me up and test my performance.

I called “Mr. Rider” and told him that OF COURSE he could borrow Ginger for the day and got the details as to where and when to deliver her and then retrieve her. I also confirmed that his “crack” team of pony girls would all wear the newly-mandated safety helmets with curved visors, concealing my identity. He grumbled that this spoiled the view when one of the ponies was giving him a hummer, and I agreed, trying to match his detached, condescending view of the purposes of pony girls, pulling, sucking, and fucking. He was rather vague as to how the vet students would use the ponies in their exhibit booth, which made me slightly nervous, but I figured I could handle being teased sexually by a bunch of graduate students.

Mary shook her head at the news of my latest risky “field trip,” but as a long-time, trusted employee she realized that I DID owe Tex, so this wasn’t entirely my fault. She still couldn’t resist razzing me gently. “You just can’t give up playing Ginger, can you? It’s kinda dicey to turn you over to a bunch of young adults like that, but I’m sure you just can’t wait to get yourself pawed over and played with.”

She sighed, the added, “Tex wants you at the start of the parade route really early in the morning, and Hailie and I already have to get up early and take some of the herd down to the other end of the route for the ranch’s own booth at the Expo. So, rather than waste the time stopping at a rest area to tack you up, why don’t you make the entire trip in the trailer with the other ponies? If you behave yourself, MAYBE I’ll stop and let you out on the way home that night. Otherwise, Bill might want to take Ginger out for a test ride when we get home.”

She grinned, but by now she knew enough about my weird mind to realize that I would actually ENJOY making the whole trip as a helpless, voiceless, horny animal. I didn’t think she would really let her husband play with Ginger—in the two years we’d worked together, she had never allowed him to even get a pony blowjob, although SHE had cuckolded him twice while she was in slave mode. Knowing her, Mary would make it up to Bill by playing pony for him sometime.

*****

I also had to beg off seeing Richard on the first day of the three-day Expo, saying I would make it up to him the next day. I didn’t exactly lie to him, but how could I tell him that I couldn’t watch the parade because I would be IN it, pulling a float?

After carefully shaving every hair below my eyebrows, I went to bed early the night before because I would have a really long day at the parade and fair. Not surprisingly, I couldn’t sleep very well. In addition to the natural jitters I felt about turning myself (in pony mode) over to a bunch of unknown young people, I kept dreaming. Richard Jameson was making love to me except that, in the middle of our passion, Lois suddenly became Ginger. He ended up tying her face down over a fence rail, using all three of her openings while he told her she was a good little pony slut. Sigh—I’ve GOT to resolve that soon.

Up at 3:30 in the morning, giving myself multiple enemas and douches before lubricating both channels, just in case. I rubbed SPF 50 lotion all over my body both to protect against the sun and to give myself a glistening appearance. By the time Hailie knocked on my door, I had put on as much of my leather gear as possible without help. We had it down to a science, and in less than five minutes Hailie was leading Pony Girl Ginger out of a side door, around the corner so no one saw us coming out of the big house.

When we reached the stable yard, Mary had already loaded two other fillies onto the horse trailer and was just walking up with Stud in tow. I was rather startled when the huge young stallion began whinnying, tossing his head, and tugging towards me. I couldn’t see his eyes very well because we were both wearing safety helmets with visors, but he clearly wanted to get close to me. I thought he was just horny, recalling the way he had thoroughly explored both of my lower openings during our last trip.

But then Hailie put her lips next to my ear. “I think you’ve got a boyfriend. Remember that hickey he gave you at the Breeding Barn?” She giggled innocently, but it suddenly occurred to me that Stud had seen LOIS with a hickey that same night and has smirked and winked every time we had met since that night. I was no superwoman, but there was a good chance that my prize stallion had joined the list of those who knew my “secret identity.” Good thing he was silenced for the next five years.

After securing me, standing up, inside the trailer, Hailie activated the random vibrator circuit in my ponytail plug, which at least kept me from being bored during the travel. It also meant that I was squirming and shaking my butt lewdly a few feet in front of Stud, which seemed like teasing him unnecessarily.

Unable to see a clock or observe the passing scenery, I had no way to measure our progress. Finally, the trailer came to a halt; in the silence after the truck stopped, I was aware of a quiet hubbub outside. This early in the morning, that much sound meant we were at the assembly point for the Slave Expo parade.

Not surprisingly, when Hailie backed me out of the trailer we were beside a large Conestoga wagon near a gaggle of unknown pony girls. Four of them in various ethnic and hair combinations were already harnessed up as the back third of the team, but one of the other girls, a blonde with very generous boobs and more baby fat than most ponies possess, was otherwise occupied. She was kneeling to suck off a 20-something ranch hand whose face looked vaguely familiar. Then I noticed that the girl’s rump carried a still-red, raw brand from Richard’s Jameson Ranch—a capital J intertwined with the circle and upward arrow of the male gender symbol. That jarred my memory—the guy had been one of three people who trained me when I was boarded at the Jameson Ranch some months ago.

In the early morning light, I vaguely recognized Abby Rider, who was trying to organize her float. She had noticed the new brand on the kneeling girl, because she asked the guy (who talked with Abby as if it were normal to have his cock down a slave girl’s throat in front of a free woman) whether that pony had enough training to be part of the team.

He laughed. “Don’t worry! Until a month ago, Charlene here actually worked TRAINING ponies to trot, although I have to admit that she spent more time flirting with the other hands than actually working. And when she DID do any work, she always acted as if she were SO superior to the other trainers as well as the slaves, like ice wouldn’t melt in her cunt.” With a sound of protest, the kneeling woman tried to back away from him, but he clamped onto her head with both hands and re-inserted himself. I remembered that she had indeed lorded it over everyone including me, cock-teasing the guys into doing her work while using my mouth to get her off when they weren’t around.

“Anyway, Charlene got into credit card debt. When the bank repossessed her, they gave Mr Jameson, their biggest depositor, right of first refusal. She’s spent the last month getting the full pony girl experience. Besides,” he continued, staring hard into the new pony’s eyes, “this slut knows if you give her a bad report today, my partner and I will get to play with ALL her openings ALL weekend. And you’d love that, right, Charlene?” Her eyes dropped and she nodded her head. A few more seconds and he unloaded down her throat, then casually zipped up and helped Amy strap the ex-pony trainer into the team harness. Charlene had been an absolute bitch while training me, but I still felt sorry for her plight now. It reminded me that I REALLY needed to stop risking my own freedom by playing these games. Too bad I enjoyed them so much!

*****

Although the Conestoga wagon was supposedly a “lightweight” reproduction of the original, it was difficult even with twelve females to start it moving. Along with the other ponies, I ended up with a few stinging whip marks on my butt, although I was glad to realize that Abby’s father had taught her how to avoid breaking the skin when she swung a whip to “motivate the livestock.”

Once we got moving, the submissive exhibitionist in me really enjoyed performing, semi-naked, as we paraded between two long lines of spectators. My excitement was stoked by other concerns; I realized that the damn wagon had such momentum that it might run us over if the vet students didn’t apply the handbrake correctly. Plus, I was still mentally cringing every time I heard the whip snap—poor Charlene seemed to get more than her share of “motivation.” As the parade went on, I also began to worry about what the other ponies and I would have to do as exhibits at the Expo booth after the parade.

I resolutely pushed those concerns aside and tried to enjoy the trip. Who doesn’t love a good parade? First, I concentrated on my trotting form, moving in unison with the rest of the team—we got better at that as the march wore on. Endorphins came from the exercise. It was a bright fall day with a refreshing breeze that, in conjunction with my internal arousal, ensured that my nipples protruded like missile nose cones while the bells attached to my nipple rings bounced and rang merrily with each stride. I bet Santa Claus would much rather have THIS kind of team—12 mostly-naked sluts—pulling his sleigh! I felt a lot of moisture between my thighs and noticed a suspicious shine on the thighs of the girl harnessed in front of me. Wearing the safety helmet, it was difficult for me to see the faces of the spectators, but the whore in me noticed an awful lot of hard-ons bulging in the pants of male on-lookers as the team approached. I really enjoyed the image of a pony girl team, a combination propulsion system and mobile harem. Twelve ponies, 36 horny holes, no waiting! I tried to imagine what kind of an orgy one could have involving twelve ponies, and how masters and mistresses might use us eager little sluts with minimal adjustments to the harness. The lead pair could suck and the trail pair would just bend over and offer two openings apiece (that’s 4 pieces of tail), but what was the best way to penetrate the middle girls? Maybe put mattresses or mounting frames inside the wagon? Yeah, my mind was really drifting into subspace.

All in all, the parade was a real blast. When we reached the Expo parking lot, Abby drove us smartly around to the loading docks before finally calling whoa, applying the brake and jamming the bits back in our mouths. Several other young people, apparently also veterinary students, came to take charge of us. When you’re standing helplessly, it still seems to take forever to get released from such a big rig. Finally, a young brunette woman whose nametag said “Kathy” separated my reins and pulled me aside. She gave me a long, welcome pull on a water bottle while I waited my turn to use the pee grate, then she mopped me down, catching the various fluids between my thighs. Kathy seemed to be almost as turned on as us ponies, bubbling with happiness while she told me what a sweet pony I was and played with my nipples to keep me interested.

I found out why a few minutes later, when I was the middle of three pony sluts led into the large building, ending up at a sign that announced, “University of Texas Slave Veterinary Science—Experts in Slut Care.” On one side of the large booth was a slightly smaller sign, centered over three sawhorses, that read “Pin the Tail on the Pony Girl (You must be 18 to play).” Oh, boy, now what?

As I watched, Charlene was dragged to stand in front of one of the sawhorses, then given a slap on her bottom and a push on her shoulder along with the familiar instruction to “Bend over, pony slut.” How often had I given that same command at the Spinning Wheel? Only this time I was one of the sluts being bent. The young guy who had flipped Charlene over nudged her ankles apart and clipped them with a spreader bar, just as Kathy towed me to a second sawhorse and put me in a similar position. Before I could blink, I was well secured, bent double with my reins secured to the far side of the sawhorse while the spreader bar holding my ankles apart was itself wired down to the near side. Of course, my forearms were still restrained and my voice converter collar remained on. I definitely wasn’t going anywhere or doing anything. Someone—presumably Kathy—ripped out my ponytail plug without waiting for my muscles to stretch, then shoved three fingers covered with lubricant back in. I couldn’t see much in my humbling new position, but to my right I heard the guy who had immobilized Charlene speaking to a group of exposition visitors.

“One of the essential daily tasks in caring for a pony girl is installing and removing her ponytail. Many people think this is just about aesthetics, making the slave look more like a real horse. Actually, the plug serves several other functions. The plug contains sensors to monitor blood pressure, heart rate, and other vital signs; the same plug can be used to administer medications. It also keeps her anus well stretched in case you need it for other uses.” There was a ripple of suggestive laughter, mostly from male voices.

The student continued, “Besides, that plug is a constant reminder to the pony of her subordinate status, her readiness to serve people in any way; to a pony, the plug just feels good.” (Yeah, right, kid, I thought. Let’s trade places and we’ll see how “good” it feels when I ram the equivalent of a large flashlight up YOUR asshole. Ignorant people.)

Then he got to the point of his monologue. “Still, inserting the plug under normal circumstances takes a considerable time period because the pony’s muscles and sphincter have to adjust to the intrusion. That’s particularly true when putting the tail on a newly-enslaved animal like this one.” I heard Charlene’s voice, translated into a horsey snort of pain. I guess this kid (I mean, master) had slapped her still-healing brand. Great bedside manner for a future slave veterinarian, I thought, and then was startled when he slapped MY butt. “Older mares like this one, who’ve been taking tail plugs and OTHER things into their colons for years,” (another burst of snickering) “are much more relaxed about these intrusions.” (I resented that remark, even if it WAS true!)

“The point, ladies and gentlemen, is to offer any free adult the opportunity to practice tail plug installation in a faster, more humane manner that’s actually fun for the pony as well. We use a fingertip vibrator to stimulate the clitoris” (another sudden sound from Charlene, a snort that suddenly turned into a whinny of pleasure); the animal ALMOST reaches a sexual climax, at which point she temporarily relaxes her anal sphincter, and [brief pause] the tailplug pops right in without pain.” Charlene nickered quietly.

The vet student finally came to an end. “All right, folks, please form three lines for the chance to try this out. I’ll need to see some ID to ensure you’re 18 years old, and then there are boxes of small, medium, and large latex gloves to protect your hands.” Yeah, but what protects the ponies? I wondered. Sigh. Well, Lois, you wanted to be a helpless pony slut being used sexually by strangers—be careful what you wish for!

And then I felt a vibrator buzzing on my clit, and my mind just went away for a while . . .

(To be continued)

[jeepster]

Great chapter! Love that we got some insight into Hailie! Bummed that Sterling's visit only appeared as an aside. The Chad part was interesting!

[jeepster]

So does Richard see her pulling the float in the parade and decide she needs to be his pony?

[imreadonly2]

I loved this, particularly her servicing the pimply faced teen, and the power dynamic of her being mastered by an employee so far below her. I wasn't sure what the "paper in his hands" was -- can you explain that? But I loved the image.

I also love the emerging love story with Richard, which is quite interesting and takes the story in a new direction. Brilliantly written, as always, and I eagerly await the next entry!!

[Carl Bradford]

In answer to Joe's question, the paper Lois/Ginger saw in Chad's hands was her signed authorization to let him use any of her openings--to me, that was just one more step in the ignominy of becoming her youngest employee's toy.

[imreadonly2]

In answer to Joe's question, the paper Lois/Ginger saw in Chad's hands was her signed authorization to let him use any of her openings--to me, that was just one more step in the ignominy of becoming her youngest employee's toy.

As you know, I love that sort of touch. First, the irony of her boss lady Lois signing the authorization for Ginger's use, and secondly, the routine "paperwork" aspect to it, as once enslaved fucking her is no more difficult than presenting your receipt to get your dry cleaning, or your hamburger at the pickup window. WELL DONE!

[sissyslave22]

I love this part of the story it been so good so far i look forward to seeing how the story continus and what happen to ginger as go's on

[jeepster]

Can see her sitting on her wood chair at her desk signing the permission slip while staring at the photo of Ginger's branded ass on the wall of her office! Getting herself close to orgasm so many times!

[bertrumm00057]

We really need one of our graphic artists to illustrate that image of all those girls pulling that wagon in the parade.