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Adult Content Warning - this story contains adult themes, including non-consensual bondage/slavery and forced sexual acts. If you are under the lawful age for such materials (18 in most jurisdictions) or if you would find such material offensive, please go elsewhere.
Safety Warning. This story may contain descriptions of practices that are decidedly unsafe, either in general, or if performed by someone without adequate training. There are a number of good books available on safety in the BDSM scene. Most large cities, and some not so large ones, have organized BDSM groups that will usually welcome a newcomer. I'm not going to point out which practices are safe, and which aren't. Any practice is unsafe if performed by someone with inadequate training and experience, or if performed when not paying attention. Please think before you act. Don't make yourself a candidate for a Darwin award.
There are seven stories in this series, which takes a young lady named Sally from her first attempts to scratch an itch she isn't able to ignore to becoming a full time career ponygirl, subject to the desires of her legal owner.
1. Trainee Ponygirl
2. Stable Discipline
3. First Weekender
4. Show Ponygirl
5. Resident Ponygirl
6. Indentured Ponygirl
7. Academic Ponygirl
Now on to the story...
“This,” Sally thought to herself as she drove toward her appointment, “is getting beyond weird.” Six months ago she’d signed up for a one hour training session on how to be a ponygirl, in the devout hope that it would quench the fascination she’d been unsuccessfully trying to suppress. It hadn’t. She’d signed up for a second a week later, and then a third. It wasn’t like they were making it particularly easy on her, either. In the first session she’d discovered that they had a collar that suppressed her voice, and that they riveted it on! She’d been introduced to a set of toe shoes that seemed to be reshaping her feet. At least, she’d discovered that she could now wear atrociously high heels practically forever without discomfort.
She had a pair of pony boots in her locker. They came up to just below her knee, and held her feet in full extension. They had a thin coating of red horsehair that matched her hair. The top merged almost imperceptibly with her skin. They’d even put a white stocking on her off hoof! The total effect was startling. When she looked at herself in a mirror she could almost swear that they’d replaced her lower legs with a horse’s legs.
The other thing that had happened was nestled between her ass cheeks, just under her tailbone. They’d installed it with minor surgery when she went from one session a week to three. It felt like a normal part of her body. The gadget let her plug in her tail. At least, she thought, they’d made sure that the color scheme matched her hair and her legs! The socket not only merged with her body, it was covered with fine red hair that let it merge almost imperceptibly with the tail.
At first, her tail had just hung there, but after a month or so she had discovered she could make it move. By now, it felt like she’d been born with it; it moved with her thoughts as seamlessly as her arms and legs.
Her trainer was utterly relentless. She’d felt the lash a few times in the first session, and it had been an expected if unwelcome part of every session thereafter until she learned to get her head out of the way and simply let her body react to the commands and the rein signals. Once she’d learned that, she felt the lash less frequently, but the sudden sting of the whip hadn’t vanished. He still used it to push her beyond what her body wanted to do. She could expect her ass and legs to be well striped if he thought she wasn’t putting out all the speed or endurance she was capable of.
She’d learned quite a few horse type behaviors as well. She’d nuzzle him, eat a sweet out of his hand, and paw the ground with one hoof if she was displeased at something. The thing she’d found most embarrassing, though, was that somewhere along the line she’d lost her toilet training. She now had a tendency to empty her bladder whenever it filled. At least, she mused, that behavior was confined to when she was in pony bondage and outside!
Today was definitely going to be different, though. Last week, Mira had suggested that she was ready for the next stage of her training. She’d recommended a six hour session so that she could learn how a ponygirl acted when she wasn’t actively being worked by a trainer.
It had taken a little work to reorganize her schedule to fit in six hours in a block. For some reason, they weren’t at all put out by her suggestion that she do it in the evening. She had an awful suspicion that she might be staying overnight. In fact, it was enough of a suspicion that she had her outfit for the next day’s work in a garment bag.
She didn’t think it would raise anyone’s suspicions, though. She’d been coming directly from work for some time, and had been bringing her casual outfit in a garment bag for almost the same length of time.
The same inconspicuous industrial road led past the same row of forbidding, mostly abandoned or at least unoccupied factories, warehouses and less identifiable structures. She turned into the lot, past the guard shack and the road teeth, and pulled up to the parking lot she’d been assigned for this adventure. It wasn’t the same lot she’d been parking in for the last six months; that had individual garage stalls with rollup doors. This was just a standard concrete and blacktop surface under a roof that made it difficult to see into from the outside.
She found a parking space and exchanged her pumps for the toe shoes. A minute later, she walked toward the lit door, holding her garment bag over one shoulder.
The door, at least, turned out to go into a nicely lit reception room, not particularly different from an office guard station in any building. The uniformed minion behind the desk frowned at her a moment, looked at something she couldn’t see, and then said: “You’re Sally?”
“Sign here.” He shoved a sign-in book at her. “There’ll be a groom along in a minute.” She signed the book and then looked up as a man walked out of one of the doorways. She looked at the door and thought that she probably couldn’t have missed it. The sign said: “Returning Ponygirls.”
“You’re Flying Hooves?” he asked her. “That name certainly suits you,” he continued on without a break to let her answer. “The stable entrance is this way.” He turned and left without checking to see if she was following him.
At least he didn’t deliberately try to lose her, she thought as she hurried to follow him. It wasn’t like it was a maze, either. The corridor went around a couple of turns, and then exited in a locker room very like the one she’d been using for the last six months.
“Your locker is in this section,” he pointed at one of the rows, helpfully lettered B. “It’s got your name on it.”
She walked down the column of lockers and benches, reading the fanciful names. She finally found the one that declared it belonged to Flying Hooves. It opened to her touch. She found they had moved her collar, hooves and tail, as well as the supply of cosmetics she kept here.
She hung her garment bag and efficiently stripped her clothes. A few minutes later, she had installed her tail and put on the hoof boots. She gave her tail an experimental swish, grinning at the feel of it sliding against the backs of her thighs. She walked back out, holding the collar in one hand.
“Well, let’s get the rest of the equipment on you,” the groom said, taking the collar from her hands. A moment later, he had it cinched around her neck and secured with the riveting gun. “Now, there’s a big difference here. It’s not real healthy to have your arms pinioned for hours at a time, so we do it a bit differently. These things,” he held up two long, thin objects, “are your front hooves. Fold your hands so your knuckles are in front like this,” he demonstrated, “and slide them into the top.”
He held the right hoof out while she fumbled a moment before getting her hand properly seated; then he zipped up the glove portion and sealed it closed with a thump of the riveting gun. A moment later, he had her left hand properly hooved as well.
She held up her front hooves to inspect them in wonder. They looked very like a horse’s hooves. The place that imprisioned her hands was about a half foot up from the actual hoof; the rest came up her arms almost to the elbows like a very snug glove. She looked at them intently enough that she almost didn’t notice when he dropped the halter on her head and tightened it. “Come,” he said, and she followed him out the other door, automatically high stepping.
He led her down a long corridor that had other corridors opening on either side. From the glimpses she managed to catch, they looked like they could be lines of stalls. After passing several of the side corridors, he pulled her into one on the left and brought her about halfway down the line of stalls.
“This one’s yours,” he announced. It was, she thought, fairly obvious; it had her name painted on a wooden plank set on the back wall. He opened the gate and she obediently walked in.
“This odd looking contraption is your toilet,” he pointed at a ceramic blob in the corner next to the gate. “You squat on it until it presses in, and then let go. It’s got a built-in cleaner.” She looked at it in puzzlement until suddenly she figured it out. He meant exactly what he had said. She walked over to it and squatted, finding that the curve of the fixture slid in between her ass cheeks and fit against the front curve of her hips, hiding her slit. Then she turned beet red as her body decided to take the opportunity to empty her bladder.
A minute later, she finished and made to get off of the eccentric toilet, but found the groom’s hands pressing down on her shoulders. She suddenly discovered the reason; a jet of water lanced out and traced a path from the top of her slit all the way to the back of her ass, and then returned.
“Food’s in the back, and don’t gossip too much.” He chuckled at his joke as he walked out of the stall and swung the door closed. He slid the latch and walked away without a backward glance.
Flying Hooves looked around her stall. It seemed to be about two meters long, and about a meter and a half wide. It had a thick covering of straw on the floor. The back seemed to be solid wood from the floor to the ceiling, with thicker posts where the sides joined. The sides themselves were about a meter and a third high; certainly not high enough to prevent her from climbing out if she really wanted to work at it. She didn’t, however, think that would be the world’s best idea; the back wall had a very tough looking iron ring that in turn had a chain ending with a simple spring latch hanging from it. She’d just bet that it fit the ring in her collar perfectly!
The chain was neatly coiled several times around the ring. Just below it was a rectangular hole in the wall. The top was a bit over a meter from the floor, and the bottom was maybe half that. It ran for slightly less than half the width of the stall. It was deep enough to hold a bowl of water and a plate with something unidentifiable piled on it.
The sides of the stall seemed to be made out of wood, and very boring wood at that. The door in the front was off to the side, leaving about a third of a meter of solid wall for the toilet.
The wall on the other side of the corridor, however, was absolutely loaded with stuff. Most of the stuff seemed to be ponygirl tack. She recognized her bridle, several bits, her arm restraints and the wide belt they used to harness her to the carts. She didn’t recognize some of the other equipment. The wall came up from a shelf that seemed to have cabinets under it.
The floor to ceiling posts that separated the stalls also had stuff hanging from hooks. Most of that seemed to be rope; she recognized the halter that the groom had used to bring her to her stall.
Beyond that, she finally decided, there really wasn’t all that much to see. The ceiling lights were, well, ceiling lights. There was a strip of them down the corridor, and another strip over the stalls. The row of stalls ended with a wall on both ends. There didn’t seem to be any other ponygirls home, although she couldn’t have told if one was sleeping in a farther stall.
About then, her stomach reminded her that she’d come directly from work, and she hadn’t had anything to eat. It was past time to investigate the food. She bent over and promptly hit her head on the shelf, eliciting a startled whinny. After a few tries, she discovered that the only way she could get her head positioned to either drink the water or get some of the food was to stand on her front hooves.
While the food didn’t look all that appetizing, it turned out to be quite tasty. It was basically a very thick, and very stiff, porridge. It was filled with chunks of various kinds of meats, vegetables and other things. She demolished dinner in short order, and then hit her head again trying to get up. Once she backed out of the food stall she glared at it balefully, and then snorted. It did look like they wanted her to learn how to get around on four hooves, and were taking a fairly effective method of doing it.
She stood up and snorted again. The stable, or at least the part she could see, hadn’t changed in the slightest. If she had to spend very much time here, she could see herself becoming bored out of her mind. Or would she?
She thought for a minute. Her trainer had been working her on standing with her reins tied to various implements, and once she’d picked up the trick of just sensing and not thinking about it, it wasn’t too bad. In fact, now that she thought of it, it did make the time go.
So how to do it? She decided to drop back to all fours while she contemplated what to do. In a moment she imagined her trainer walking up behind her, and her world shifted in the way she had become familiar with over the last few months.
She promptly stood up and looked around again, eyes bright with curiosity. Then she dropped back down and sprawled out on the straw, and promptly dozed off as her stomach proceeded to work on the recent meal.
Around a half hour later, a groom walked into her section of the stable leading a ponygirl by the lead attached to her halter, and with her tack neatly arrayed on his shoulder. He stopped by a stall two down from Flying Hooves, and let her into the stall, neatly stripping the halter off and hanging it on the rack. Flying Hooves stirred at the sound, and then came erect in one flowing motion, looking at the sound. She gave an excited whinny: another ponygirl!
The groom spent a few minutes arranging the tack on the wall, and then walked down to Flying Hooves’ stall. “You’re next,” he told the eagerly waiting ponygirl. “Turn around and fold your hooves behind you.”
The redheaded ponygirl turned around and folded her arms behind her crosswise. A moment later he took the arm restraints off the wall and fastened her two upper arms together with the crosspiece. This was a simple rod with cuffs at both ends, and another pair of cuffs dangling from either end. He riveted the end cuffs together with the riveting tool that hung on the wall, and then wrapped her behooved forearms with the dangling cuffs and riveted them shut.
“Headstall,” he said next as he took the leather part of the bridle off of the wall and held it out. She ducked her head so that he could fit it and adjust the buckles. Then he held her chin with one hand while he held her bit in front of her. She obediently opened her mouth to accept the iron intruder. He snugged it against the retaining rings and latched it to the headstall.
“Reins,” he said as he clipped the two leather straps to the metal pieces that hung down the sides of the bit. Then he wrapped the reins around a ring set on one of the corner posts that fronted her stall.
“Corset,” he proclaimed as he opened the stall door. She obediently pulled in her stomach as he wrapped the tough leather around her and pulled the buckles tight in back. He spent a few minutes lacing it up, making sure he tightened the buckles as he took several inches off of her waist. When he was done, the leather sat firmly on her hips, leaving about an inch above her thatch in front and firming up the globes of her ass cheeks in back. He looked at her a moment, and then tugged on the buckles on each side, nodding in approval as he found absolutely no slack.
He pulled the reins off of the ring, and gave them a tug. Flying Hooves walked out of her stall, doing a perfect high step. He stopped her with another tug and closed the stall door, and then he walked behind her and flicked the reins, putting a light tension on one of them to turn her toward the exit. She high stepped down the corridor and out the door.
She found herself in a huge roofed space; the interior of what had been at one time an open factory floor. It didn’t look quite as massive as it was because it was broken up by carefully tended hedges, gardens and lawns. The groom guided her down a path to an area that had a number of exercise carousels set up.
These were simply tall poles with a pair of arms sticking out of them, one set at about head height, the other set at about waist height. The groom maneuvered her in front of the arms and threaded the leather traces that fell from the lower arm through the buckles in her corset, giving them a tug to make sure they were firmly fastened. Then he positioned her reins on two levers on the upper arm, again making sure that they had the right amount of slack. He buckled a light harness around her torso, the straps crossing between her breasts. The harness had a set of monitors that checked her heart rate, breathing and other vital signs. He plugged the insturments into the waiting socket on the lower arm, and stepped back to check his work.
He went to a small kiosk and punched in a few numbers. A moment later, the reins shook and a speaker aimed at her head uttered one word: “Hup!” She began to high step, whinnying in surprise as she felt the tension around her waist. The speaker began counting a cadence as she dragged the arms around the pole.
The groom watched for a moment and then nodded. She seemed to be taking the exercise in stride, and wasn’t sightseeing.
He walked off to the next task, leaving Flying Hooves to trace her path around the exercise pole.
An hour later, another groom came by with a trainer, and they inspected the displays on the computer kiosk as she, and several other ponygirls, continued their rounds. The trainer nodded and made some notes. “Let’s have her go another fifteen, and then groom her and put her back in her stall.” The groom nodded. Fifteen minutes, he thought, should be enough time to take one of the other ’girls off of the exerciser and get her stabled.
Fifteen minutes later, Flying Hooves was more than ready to stop. Her ass and thighs had several thin red lines left by the stinging lash incorporated into the lower boom. All of them had been earned as she thought she was on her last legs. The lash had showed her an unsuspected reserve of strength. However, for the last few minutes, the exercise computer had her walking slowly, cooling down.
The groom stopped the boom, and watched the tired ponygirl stand there limply in the traces. He unhitched her, shook the reins and said: “Hup!” Flying Hooves tried to high step, but didn’t manage to make it. “Don’t worry about high stepping,” the groom told her. She gave a weak whinny in response.
A minute later he had guided her down a path to a grooming station. This was a simple frame. He had her spread her legs so that he could clip them to short chains, and then he popped the rivets out of her restraints and fastened her arms to the top corners of the frames, removing all four hoof boots in the process. He unlaced the corset and bridle, and dumped all of the tack into a bin filled with a dirty white powder. When he turned it on, the powder churned, sucking all of the sweat and grime out of the tack; leaving it fit for another use.
Cleaning the ponygirl, however, wasn’t quite as easy. He pulled a shower head off of the side of the frame and proceeded to wet her down thoroughly. Then he adjusted the head so it oozed a thick foam, and lathered her up. A third pass of warm water washed off the foam, together with the sweat and grime. He finished up with a hot air blower.
In ten minutes, he had a clean ponygirl on his rack. It would have been nice if she had been alert and perky, but even with the wash she was still pretty well zonked out. He finished the job by dropping a halter over her head and then taking the boots out of the cleaner and putting her feet and hands back into them, neatly sealing each one with a rivet.
He picked up the corset and arm restraints, twitched the lead rope and told his captive: “Hup!” She hupped, managing to do a high step. He led her back into the stable and put her in her stall. As soon as he took the halter off, she dropped to the ground, and then managed to get herself on all four hooves. The groom looked at her, and then grinned as she backed up into the strange fixture and relieved herself, and then moved forward to the new pile of ponygirl mash. Three minutes later, she was sprawled out on the straw, fast asleep.
An hour and a half later, another groom came in and looked into her stall. She’d woke up and was standing on all four hooves, head stuck into the feeding alcove where she was trying to get the trick to drinking neatly out of her water bowl.
“Time to get to work,” he said, leaning on the stall door. She whinnied in startlement and banged her head again on the overhanging ledge. Then she gave a disgusted snort and backed out.
“Stay on all four legs,” he instructed as he took the headstall off of the wall, and opened the stall door. “Now just back out; that’s a good girl!” He expertly captured her head in the headstall as she awkwardly coordinated her legs in the unfamiliar maneuver. “Now just open up for the bit.” He slid the bit into her mouth and fastened it to the headstall and added a pair of reins. Then he snapped a set of blinders onto the bridle.
“Just stay down there,” he said as she tried to rise, emphasizing his instruction by planting one large hand between her shoulder blades. “Your next session is going to be on all four hooves.” She gave another startled whinny, but settled to stand, back level to the ground.
“Next is the harness.” He pulled an assemblage of straps off of the wall and draped it across her shoulders, arranging it so that one set of straps fell over each shoulder, a second fell on each side of her chest above her breasts, and a third set fell over her waist. He reached under her and buckled the shoulder straps to the five sided fastening that nestled just above the curve of her breasts, bringing the final strap down to where he buckled the other two straps around her waist. He pulled them tight and looked at his work. That, he thought, ought to do it. The two horizontal straps were anchored to the vertical straps by thick diagonals so that the buckles on the sides of the horizontals would properly distribute their load.
“Now take it slowly, right front hoof first,” he instructed. “Just let your body do the work, that’s a good girl!” She put her right front hoof out and then found that her left rear hoof followed naturally. Then her left front hoof followed, and she was walking on all fours as the groom lightly tugged on the reins.
A few minutes later, the groom had guided her to an area where there were a number of small chariots lined up. These chariots had shafts that were adapted for ponygirls that walked on all fours. He led her in front of one, and then talked her back to a position between the shafts. A couple of minutes later, he had the traces firmly attached to the buckles in her harness. He got into the contraption, and shook the reins. “Ge-hup! Right front, and push with the left hind leg. That’s a good girl!” He talked her through the process of pulling a chariot on all fours.
Once she seemed to be steady, he guided her out to one of the practice areas that was covered with short paths that curved into each other in a very bewildering pattern, or rather deliberate lack of pattern. The paths were set in among an equally diverse set of lawns and flower beds. He kept her there for a solid two hours, alternating between periods of moving on all four hooves and having to answer to the reins, and periods of standing on the sidelines recovering from the way the posture exercised muscles she didn’t know she had in ways she had never expected.
Once he’d decided she’d really had enough, he guided her out of the exercise paths to one of the grooming stations, and proceeded to groom her again. Ten minutes later, he had a clean and very slagged out ponygirl. He put her down on all fours and led her into the building into another room off of the stable area. This room had several tables. He got her onto one, and another trainer came over and began a thorough massage.
Once the trainer had gotten all of the kinks out of her muscles, he put her back on the floor on all four hooves and led her back to her stall. She relieved herself, wolfed down the plate of food, and passed out on the floor, sprawled in an ungainly position.
“It looks”, the trainer said, “that you’re not going to go home tonight.” He took a data pad off of his belt, frowned at it a moment, and then made an entry. “I hope we’ve got time in the morning to get you up, exercised and out of here.”
In the morning, another trainer walked into the row of stalls, looking at the signs. Then he grinned; the new ponygirl was standing in her stall, apparently quite ready for something to happen. He’d checked the time; he had close to an hour before she had to be in the changing room. He waved at her as he turned to look at the tack on the wall.
A few minutes later, he had her corseted and bridled, and had her arms locked behind her in the standard pose. He led her out to the exercise carousel, and set in a medium intensity 45 minute workout.
An hour later, he’d finished grooming her and brought her to the changing room, where he popped the rivets that secured her hoof boots and collar on. Sally made a fast dash for her locker and got dressed about as rapidly as she’d ever managed it. He chuckled; this ponygirl did seem to have planned for an overnight stay. When she came out, she was wearing a pretty snazzy work outfit.
Sally looked at herself in the mirror as she carefully applied her makeup. The redhead that looked back at her didn’t look any the worse for wear. In fact, she looked remarkably self-satisfied. Well, she thought to herself, she had every right to be. Her first long session had ended perfectly, and she had another day before the short session on Wednesday to consider her reactions. Right now, she had to get her hair arranged and get to work!
She got up, slid her laundry into the garment bag and walked out, following the signs to the guard station, where she signed the book and headed out to her car.
That Wednesday, after a high intensity workout, Mira met her in the locker room. “Well, girl, how did you like the long session?”
“That was pretty good. Was my overnight stay planned?”
Mira shrugged. “We never can tell on a first session. We’d suggest an overnighter in a few weeks if you hadn’t gotten to it by then yourself. At least, assuming you want to continue with the long sessions.”
“Oh, I do! That session did something to me! Can I schedule three a week?”
“Not yet!” Mira chuckled. “We don’t do overnighters on Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights, and we also don’t do them on adjacent days unless you’ve got a Chastity and Control Shield installed and have learned to use it at least minimally, so that limits you to two a week for a while.”
Sally made a face. “Why do I have to have one of those things?”
“Once you go past two a week, you’ll need to interface with some stable services from your stall. Also, you’ll want to experience what a real working ponygirl does, and that also requires one.”
had hoped to avoid having one installed,” she said a bit glumly. “At least my boyfriend is going to have fun with it.”
Myra chuckled. “That’s part of being a woman, after all. Before you run out and get one, though, you need to check out the protective associations. You have to have one when
you have a control shield installed. There are a half dozen or so that are quite reputable.” Mira rummaged in her folder and passed a sheet of paper to Sally. “I’d suggest you check them out for yourself, though! They don’t all provide the same services, and if you have any thought of ever going career, picking the right one will save you a lot of grief.”
Sally looked at the paper doubtfully. “So if I sign up I can have three long sessions a week?”
“You could have up to four, but we don’t recommend it. We’d really prefer that you do a weekender next. That is, you come from work on Friday, and you’ll be a ponygirl all weekend until you leave for work on Monday. You can do two of those a month, and of course you can keep doing two overnighters a week in addition.”
Sally grinned. “When can I sign up for one?”
“Not for a while, girl! You’ve got to get your shield installed and get some facility with using it. It takes at least a month for the brain connections to mature, and then it will take a bit of practice before you can use it.”
“Darn! How about Monday and Wednesday, with a short session on Friday after work?”
“We should be able to do that,” Mira said, checking her organizer. “OK. Your next short session is Friday, and plan for spending overnight on Monday and Wednesday. This Friday will be the last time you’ll use this section, though. You’ll come in to the stable area for the short session as well. That we we don’t have to
move your things every week.
“That’s it for this time. See you Friday,” Mira told her as her trainee got up off of the bench.
“Suits,” Sally said as she hung her garment bag over her shoulder and walked out the door.
Mira looked after her. This one might go all the way, she thought to herself. Most trainees dropped out long before this point. Some stopped with the weekenders of course, but this one probably wouldn’t, and that meant a nice bonus when she was sold to her first owner.
Don’t spend it before you’ve got it, she reminded herself. It would be at least a year before this one got to the point of
being ready for sale.
If you enjoyed this story, please e-mail the author and let him know. He likes to hear from his loyal fans,and it gives him some motivation to keep writing this stuff. Of course, if you're a publisher and you'd like to buy some of these stories, please let him know. The starving author in the garret makes a great story, but it sucks in real life.