I didn't have long to wait. About a month later, Lily summoned me to the president's office, where the boss told Lily and Beth to sit down. Being a slave, I knelt in a corner where I could watch all three women with my fingers interlocked behind my neck. These private conferences had become common over the past three years, and were usually conducted in a friendly manner—except for my stance, I felt almost equal with my affectionate owners. This time, however, all three of these women looked serious, and I hastily searched my memory for any sins or errors I might have made.
Ms. Williams could apparently read minds, because her first words were to reassure me. "Don't worry, Cindy, you haven't done anything wrong. In fact, you've done such a good job of entertaining Don Trevelyan that he wants to rent you for two weeks. Yeah," she continued, "Your expression tells me that worries you, and I don't blame you at all."
"Here's the deal," Lily spoke up. "He knows that your time is valuable to us, so he made us an offer. The good news is that he will pay $12,000 PER WEEK to borrow you. That's chicken-feed to a guy like him, but it would materially advance your freedom, right? The bad news is, he'll ship you by dog cage to a pony girl ranch. The ranch will train you for a week before he comes out to play with you, including racing, during the second week."
Oh, crap. The only time I'd actually seen pony girl activity was when the Pearson Pussy Ranch used it to break a recalcitrant "student." Everyone had HEARD about pony girl ranches, though—slavery had made them much more common, because rich people no longer had to entice, trick, or coerce free women to be ponies. Now, the rich could legally buy slaves to use as draft animals without fear of repercussions or punishment so long as the slaves were released at the end of their enslavement —not that there was any guarantee even of that! It was spring rather than summer in Texas, but even in springtime, two weeks of pony girl "play," strapped into a harness and bit while I tried to pull a cart, sounded excruciating. In reality, of course, I had no choice—even if Master Don hadn't offered such a pile of money, Ms. Williams was unlikely to say no to anything that Trevelyan proposed, short of using me in a snuff film. Sigh.
"The thought of this makes me VERY nervous, Mistress, but of course I'm at your service. May I ask that you take whatever steps you can to ensure Master Donald returns me on time?"
They tried to reassure me on that point, and for the next several days excused me from most of my duties, computer or sexual, so that I could work out, especially on the treadmill. I knew that I was in no shape to suddenly become a running draft animal, but I tried to prepare. Mistress Juana, the boss' cook, tried to fatten me up with a lot of sweets that were normally not allowed for slaves.
Even my shipment wasn't as straight-forward as I had thought. The following Sunday, after Beth and Lily had placed a soft pad at the bottom of the shipping cage and then cuffed and gagged me in the usual manner, they had one more step that Donald had insisted upon: Pulling a fleecy black bag over my head and then tightening the drawstring on the bag! (Notice that they didn't bother to tell me this added refinement until after I was gagged—protesting would have done no good, anyway, but I couldn't help wondering how THEY would have liked the bag.) Since I was zip-tied, I couldn't remove it. The sight of the bag filled me with dread because it reminded me of hooding condemned criminals before execution. Once the damn thing was on, it only added to the considerable discomfort of poodle express.
There I was, kneeling, bound, collared, gagged, and now blinded, even more helpless than the usual fate of slaves in transit. The bag also restricted my hearing, so that I felt more disoriented as I heard one of my owners close and lock the cage and (faintly) wish me good luck. Next I felt/heard a hand truck turn the cage onto a 45-degree angle to move it into the unseen truck. Fortunately for me, the truck must have been air conditioned, or I would have been truly miserable in that bag. I had no way of measuring time, but it seemed as if I spent several hours in the dark before the gyrations of the cage told me that I was being unloaded.
Arriving by poodle transport is usually a stressful situation for a slave—she/he knows that whoever receives the caged bitch is going to be especially alert quick to punish any perceived hesitation or rebellion. One wrong move could get the poor slut shocked or whipped unnecessarily. Thus, when I heard a muffled voice telling me to crawl forward, I did not hesitate, shuffling as quickly as I could even though I was blind. The same voice seemed to say "Stop," so I froze into inactivity.
The sudden removal of that black bag left me blinking in the light, even though I realized in a moment that I must be in the shade of some building. Then I caught a glimpse of the person standing in front of me, who still held the bag in her hands, and my heart sank. I had known that training to be a pony girl would be miserable, but now I felt as if I had been transported onto the set of an old B-movie where the vicious Nazis, including beautiful Aryan women, torture their prisoners. She looked to be in her late 30s and was objectively gorgeous—tall with blond hair and blue eyes like me, although her tightly-clad breasts looked much larger than my B cups. And, it wasn't surprising that someone working at a pony ranch would be wearing knee-high leather boots and riding breeches while carrying a riding crop. It was the look on her face that gave me a heart attack—not only did she look like a sadist, but my gaydar alarms went off that this was a full-blown bull dike. (I have no objection to anyone's sexual preferences; what happens between consenting adults is none of my business as long as they don't shock the children or frighten the horses. But this woman clearly enjoyed dominating and torturing women, and I was a slave kneeling helpless at her feet. Come to think of it, in her eyes I was a horse, and I was certainly frightened!)
This was not a professional slave wrangler, as Beth and I had once been, moving slaves quickly through processing while seeking to minimize the stress involved. Nor was she like the assholes I had encountered when I myself had been enslaved, who used pain and fear to coerce the slaves into sex at every opportunity. Unless I was mistaken, this woman would relish both inflicting pain and extorting sex, probably from both genders of human pony. Spoiler alert: I was NOT mistaken. I hate it when I'm right.
I saw or surmised all this in one glance, and immediately dropped my eyes and tried to look as cooperative as possible while she gave me the by-now-standard no-rights-for-slaves warning to new arrivals. This included the name of the ranch—Pony Mädchen, which was bad German for Pony Girl. Just what she needed to complete the image of the Nazi torture movie —a German name for the prison camp, I mean ranch! (From somewhere in my high school German class, a dozen years in the past, I recalled that the word for girl, Mädchen, was actually neuter rather than feminine in German, so I guess it could include Pony boys—more about that later.) She identified herself as the owner of the ranch, Mistress Angela (predictably, she pronounced it with a hard "g," as in the ex-chancellor Angela Merkel), but said that, since I was a pony, I should never speak anyway, just neigh or whinny. I was to toss my head and stomp my leg once for yes and twice for no—did I understand? Since I was kneeling with my hands bound behind me, I immediately nodded my head and hit the ground once with my knee, trying to appease her. It must have worked, for she smiled slightly, then ordered me to stand and follow her. Still bound, with my legs like rubber after kneeling for hours, I somehow staggered to my feet without assistance.
Inside a barn full of leather parts, two hulking ranch hands assisted her to tack me up; there was no chance to resist even during the brief period when my hands were freed. They began by strapping me into a strange leather corset—while it pinched my waist tightly, it had two metal ovals where the bra should have been, and my boobs were soon pulled through the metal, making them look more like D-cups than Bs. Angela impatiently allowed me 30 seconds to shake out the kinks in my arms, then installed two locking leather wristlets, each (like the corset) equipped with D-rings to anchor me in various positions. I was soon bound with my arms folded behind me, one wrist to the opposite elbow.
Next, an overhead crane was connected to the D-rings on the shoulders of my corset, lifting me off the ground; each henchman (they were NOT cute little minions!) tied a rope around an ankle, and with that leverage pulled me horizontally, along an I-beam, to a tiled section with hoses lying around. I'd already given myself two enemas before climbing in the cage that morning, but my new masters were taking no chances—the water pressure in the hose gave me cramps immediately. When I felt as inflated as a water balloon, they paused for two minutes, then used the ropes to pull my legs wide apart and jerked the hose nozzle out of my butt. They were obviously experienced at this, since my discharge fell straight into a tiled slit trench that could be flushed. They repeated the process even though the water was almost clean the first time, then rinsed my groin before towing me back to the tack section.
There, Angela had the men install and carefully tighten the laces on knee-high leather boots with horseshoes on the soles. They lowered me back to the ground and allowed a little slack so I could try to adjust my balance on these odd appendages. While the boots seemed clumsy at first, the leather gave a lot of support through the ankles.
Not surprisingly, the next item was a complex leather headdress that locked around my head, cheeks, and chin with a high collar to force my head up. Mistress Angela presented me with a curb bit—a hard metal, U-shaped rod that went into my mouth but was connected (at the ends) to two vertical shanks leading downward. This meant that, when someone pulled on the bridle, even slightly, it would exert a powerful downward pull on my mouth. Of course, I didn't understand this at the time, just knew that I could no longer talk or eat with the thing in my mouth.
You may have noticed that nothing I've described had any connection to the groin, where I was wide open. The last thing Angela installed (playing with me thoroughly as she did so) was a sort of leather thong that held a large dildo inside my cunt and a smaller one in my butt. The latter, of course, was connected to a long "tail" of blonde hair. To increase the discomfort, there was a hard seam running from the front middle of the thong to the base of the front dildo, a seam that rubbed against my clit every time I lifted my legs.
Once I was fitted out in this bizarre outfit, one of the hands led me over to a modified treadmill. I say modified, because a chain now ran from the front D-ring on my collar to the framework of the mill, while my two reins were led behind me, to devices I couldn't see. Thus equipped, falling on the treadmill would be extremely painful, to say the least. Angela immediately turned on the treadmill at a very slow rate, but after only two minutes upped the speed to about four miles an hour. This would have been easy to handle if I were wearing sneakers, but with the heavy hoof-boots on my feet and the corset restricting my breathing, I was soon straining to keep up. Intermittently, some device would pull back on my reins and bit, forcing me to slow up. That was OK, but I soon discovered that the two dildos inside me were electrified—as long as I kept up the pace, the main dildo vibrated in a manner that was pleasant, yet insufficient to allow orgasm. If I slowed for any reason, even when the bit forced me to do so, I got a shock in my ass—the longer I was below speed, the stronger the shock became. And Angela took advantage of the situation to randomly whack my butt and boobs with her crop. I'm sure she enjoyed that, but all it did was to confuse me and slow down my learning.
I was panting and quivering by the time she called a halt, what seemed like hours later but was probably 40 minutes. Someone stuck a straw into my mouth so that I could at least slack my thirst, but overall I was whipped, both literally and figuratively. In disgust, the Mistress told the wranglers to give me a break before putting me back on the treadmill.
"Break" was a relative term, of course. As soon as I caught my breath, they bent me over a railing inside the building where I had been working. You guessed it—my bit (but not the headdress and bridle) came off so I could suck one guy's dick, while the other one removed the vibrators to plunder both of my lower openings. I was exhausted, but so aroused by the vibrators that I almost climaxed. I say almost, because of course they kept switching positions. At least they used condoms when fucking my ass and removed them when they switched, so I didn't literally have ass-to-mouth contact, but it was pretty close. Only after they had both used all three openings, and come twice apiece (the piece being me) did they restore the bit and vibrators, give me another short drink, and set me back onto the treadmill. Without Mistress Angela's gratuitous whippings, I was able to make some progress to the point where I could handle various paces. At that point, the handlers began to teach me to respond to bridle commands. When stationary, one slow pull meant walk, two meant trot, and so on. I still found it difficult to move fast enough for a canter, let alone a flat-out gallop, but I did my best, and the handlers, although still horny, seemed more concerned with training than torturing me.
They eventually allowed me to sit down on the straw and rest for 20 minutes, but that just permitted my legs to tighten up so that the men had to "help" me back up to continue my training. These guys enjoyed feeling me up as they spread sunblock all over my body. By this time it was late afternoon, so when they took me outside the temperature and humidity were tolerable. Now, however, the two hands connected me to a machine that walked me in a circle. Moreover, they insisted that I learn to step high, lifting each leg so that my thigh was parallel to the ground, pause a split second, and then put it down. Each such step rubbed the thong against my clit. How the hell any horse or human could make progress like this was beyond me, but the combination of vibrators, shocks, and switchings encouraged me to try.
"Dinner" was a bowl of vegetable stew and a bowl of water, with me on my knees, arms still bound behind me, so I had to stuff my face into the stew and then hope that the water washed me off. After another round on the circle-walking machine, which I learned was a "lunger," Mistress Angela finally took me off by herself, making me kneel between her thighs as she sat on a chair in a barn. She used her crop liberally to encourage me as I brought her off, finally allowing that, even though I was a failure as a pony girl, I might have a future as her pussy licker. Next, she hooked me up to the winch again, lifting me off my feet and allowing me (thank heavens) a few blissful moments with my arms free while she removed my hoof-boots. She lowered me to the floor, clipped my wrists to D-rings on the sides of my corset, and removed my dildos long enough for me to relieve myself over an open trench. She showed me how to trigger a foot button that acted as a bidet, leaving me wet but clean when she allowed me to collapse into the hay. The last words I heard were a warning that the morning buzzer would ring at 5:30, and I would have five minutes to relieve myself and be kneeling at the entrance to my stall.
The days began to run together as one continuous stream of pony practice with constant whippings, interrupted only by "rest periods" where the hands used all my holes or Mistress Angela used my tongue and whipped me repeatedly. For variety, she would periodically use clamps to mount bells on my nipples and then, when my boobs felt numb an hour later, redouble the agony by removing the clamps. Another time, after the two guys had worn themselves out on my body, they removed the dildo from my cunt, hoisted my body up by the D-rings, and lowered me onto a vibrator stuck into the floor at a slight angle. Every time I lifted my leg for a high step, the darn thing shifted around inside me—it felt good, but was very distracting when trying to practice exact form.
Wednesday, I "graduated" to being strapped into a tandem buggy rig beside a pony boy, a muscular fellow about my age. I only caught a glance of him when we were first yoked up, but something about him looked VERY familiar. I had learned to pay close attention to signals from Angela, so for a while I was focused on avoiding her crop, but eventually, when we were straining to pull her at a gallop around a quarter-mile track, I suddenly realized where I had seen that body before, including the distinctive "Sweetheart" tattoo on his left shoulder. The only thing I didn't recognize was the cursive combination of a P and and M burned deep into his left asscheek—a brand that matched the logo of the ranch. When Angela caught me staring at this painful mark, she threatened to brand me the same way—good thing I was only boarding there.
But the real shock was that I was pulling tandem with Asshole Mason the Moron! This was my ex-boyfriend, who had maneuvered things so that only MY body was in hock for the mortgage on the house we lived in for two years. (At the time he claimed to have bad credit, which is why he shouldn't be on the application.) After he dumped me (with a text, for Frack's sake!), I had been unable to keep up the payments myself, causing me to fall into slavery. Then, this moron showed up when I was about to be sold at my own slave market, telling me he had married some rich woman who had agreed that he could buy me as his ass- and mouth-whore because she didn't feel like servicing him that way! He was so stupid he seemed to think I would like that. I'd avoided THAT ignominy only by throwing myself into the sale, pretending to be so hot for the collar that my price had gone beyond what wifey was willing to pay. Which in turn meant that, again thanks to this dickhead, my body had even MORE of a debt to work off before I could earn my freedom!
[I wasn't really surprised to find him enslaved, since he was a spendthrift even when we lived together and had missed more than one month's share of the mortgage payment. Once I finally escaped the Pony Mädchen Ranch, I asked Lily to check up on him. As a licensed slave merchant, it was easy for her to track down the details—his loving wife (who being smarter than me had insisted on a pre-nup) had divorced him less than a year after their marriage, leaving him in the same position he had left me, owing way too much on a sports car and other extravagances. Since he didn't have a savior like Lily looking out for him, he went bankrupt and ended up enslaved for a ten-year period. In the long run, that was satisfying to me, especially when, that evening, I overheard Mistress Angela pegging him in another stall while demanding that he tell her, in between howls, how much he enjoyed being butt-fucked. (I have to admit that I enjoyed listening to that. From somewhere in my memory, another word of high school German appeared—Schadenfreude, which roughly translates as taking enjoyment by contemplating the suffering of others.) But while we were yoked together, I got whipped every time HE made a mistake. Screwed again. I'm not sure whether he recognized me on Wednesday, but when we were harnessed together again the next morning, he was obviously red-faced and averted his eyes. With bits in our mouths and Angela harassing us constantly, no communication was possible anyway.