This work is copyright 2000 by Xaltatun of Acheron (A Pseudonym). It may be posted on the Internet to any free forum, provided it is not modified in any way, and provided that this notice is included in its entirety. It may not be sold, or included in any compilation that is sold, or posted on any forum that requires a fee for access, without my written permission. My permission will require payment, terms to be negotiated. For purposes of this notice, sites guarded by Adult Check or similar packages are considered pay sites. Posting on any site must include this copyright notice.
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.
This is one of twelve stories in the series entitled “Ponygirl Transformation.” I may write others later, but twelve is it for now.
1. Ponygirl Finds Her Place
2. Kinder and Gentler
3. The Sorceress’ Apprentice
4. Raw Material
5. Ponygirl by Choice
6. The Politics of Ponygirls
7. Ponygirls on Vacation
8. Bluebird Grows Up
9. Unregistered Ponygirls
10. Suzie’s Ponygirl
11. Driver
12. PonyGIRL?
Acknowledgements. The setting and several of the characters are taken from two works by Sir Thomas (A pseudonym). “Adventures on the Hoof” and “Ponygirls, Inc” are both copyright by the Academy Club. Used by permission of Sir Thomas. These works are commercially available, and should not be on any web site on the internet, except for a short excerpt on Sir Jeff’s ponygirl web site. They may be ordered in the US from Quality SM, and in the UK from the Academy Club.
The character of the lobo-ra has been changed substantially. This is partially to motivate the biotechnology theme beginning in Sorceress’ Apprentice, and partially for other reasons.
The character of Sharon, in the story “The Politics of Ponygirls” was originally modeled after Rhianna Summers, a character created by Leviticus (a pseudonym). She had to be changed because the final Rhianna Summers story took a turn that made the timeline impossible. (The final story has not been posted on his site at the time of this writing).
In neither case should you infer anything about the prior stories from this one. The authors named above have substantially different objectives for their stories.
There are a number of hidden references throughout to obscure (and some not so obscure) science fiction and fantasy stories. This is a game that some authors play. Should you care to look, have fun finding them.
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.
Science Warning. In common with most science fiction authors, if I need it, I invent it. Just because it’s described, don’t assume it exists. On the other hand, just because you’ve never heard of it, don’t assume it doesn’t. There are only two universal laws. If you believe in a limitation, it’s yours. Yesterday’s impossibility is today’s research news, and tomorrow’s consumer product.
OK - now on to the story -------
Such a glorious day, charging down the interstate in my brand-new, electric blue Thunderbolt. Even the traffic was behaving itself. My freshman year was behind me, spring had turned itself into summer, and daddy had been overjoyed over my grades. Hence the Thunderbolt. I felt like bursting into song.
But which song? There weren’t that many about a maid and her pony. The one about Catherine the Great wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. And I couldn’t come up with anything about a maid and her ponygirl. The song from ‘Oklahoma!’ would have to do.
Oklahoma did splendidly. And here was the exit for Fran Donaldson’s Ponygirl Stables. Daddy had promised me my very own ponygirl for graduation. If. The hardest of the big “I”s to deal with. In this case, if I learned how to race one, and stuck with it.
Fran’s came into sight, right where the map said. Typical industrial setting. Chain link fence, guard shack, parking lot. And a huge, low building. I supposed it had to be huge if it had a regulation ponygirl track inside. Some construction equipment. A cherry picker with its basket tilted back, flanked by two earthmovers with their buckets up and out. Aaarrrggh! An abstract sculpture of the begging puppy position, done in construction equipment?
The gate came up, the road teeth came down, and the guard waved me through. The road went past the empty parking lot to a garage. The door came up in front of me, I went in, and the door came down behind me. Lots of space. I turned off the car. “Goodbye, honey. Remember to take your keys and lock the door. That’s a good girl.” Some days I could kill daddy. That voice was going to be reprogrammed. Today.
“Hi, Melissa?” The athletic looking redhead standing by the door waved at me. “I’m Sharon.” I took her in at one glance. She was fairly tall; her hair was done with very short sides and a fall standing out from each side of her head, fitted white silk blouse, black leather miniskirt and 5” heels. Classical figure. The glance turned into a full-scale stare.
Sharon giggled. “I do look a bit, um, unusual, don’t I? Which part gets you the most?”
I finished goggling. “The hair. I think.”
“It’s called a pony cut. I’m an active ponygirl. Well, as active as I absolutely have to be to finish a race and not have the judges rolling on the floor laughing. There’s not that much you can do with long hair; I think our trainers use every trick in the book to keep from getting bored.”
“I see. I think. Or maybe I think I see.” Get a grip, girl. “Our trainers try to make their hair look more like a pony’s mane. And I know girls that would kill for that length.”
“Gene manipulation. The side hair grows like that, and doesn’t have to be cut. The ponygirl association and most of the owners are flat against a real mane. Too much of a problem with the days off and vacation requirements.”
“Days off? Vacations?” I must have looked flustered. “Ours don’t even talk. How does the CSA apply to them?”
“It does. Compliance is one of the things I do for Fran.” She paused. I must have looked shocked. Or something. “Cheer up, kid. You’re not in any trouble. Your father won’t be if he gets his ass in gear right away when I talk to him. There’s too much money and political influence floating around to go after people just to prove a point.”
“Damn. Oh, well. What’s next?”
“We go see your pony. How much do you know about handling ponygirls?”
“I’ve seen ours, but I haven’t done much with them.”
“Driven one in a cart?”
“Not yet. It was always ‘next time.’ Somehow, next time didn’t happen.”
“Let’s start at the beginning then. Here are the offices.”
We turned left into a big room. A woman in a green mini-dress was cleaning stuff at one end. Another woman in a blue mini-dress was deep in conversation with a guy at one of the tables. The offices said things like “Owner. Fran Donaldson,” “Compliance. Sharon Samuels” and “Chief Trainer. Dreammaker.”
“Tammy’s the one in green, Karen’s the one in blue. She’s the chief trainer. Danny’s the guy.” Their collars said the same thing. “Hi, Karen, this is Melissa. She’s the one that’s going to be learning how to drive the Princess.”
“Great. Pull up a chair. I hope you like to work.”
“Uh, what needs doing?”
“Everything, actually. Really, we’d prefer it if you learned how to take care of a ponygirl from the ground up. You don’t need to; we can make it look like the Princess comes already harnessed.”
“But you don’t really want to. I can see that. If I’m going to be racing my own, I’d better know how to care for her.”
“Exactly. Keeps us happy. Besides, you’ll find we’re very shorthanded at races. You’ll probably wind up racing all of our ponies so whichever trainer comes with can concentrate on the routine.”
The door said “Stables and Track.” It led to a brightly lit corridor heading off to the left. Clip Clop echoed down the corridor as a pony marched away from us, a young woman dressed in pink holding her reins. She pulled a rein, and the pony turned left into another doorway.
We trooped into the door they had come out of. Light glinted off the steel bars marching down the two sides of the corridor into the distance. It looked like a jail. The cells were almost like the ones in daddy’s stable, but there were differences. Daddy’s didn’t have that wall of wood drawers and cabinets, polished to a deep glow. His didn’t have the nameplates either; the one on the left read: “Red Jaguar. Owner: Jeff Donaldson. Trainer: Danny. Captured: 1995.” The design around the outside seemed to shift until I looked at it. It was an array of shadowed cubes that shifted direction even as I watched. The red jaguar in mid leap below seemed almost normal by comparison.
“Jeff is Fran’s father. The cubes are Fran’s racing colors. Everyone agrees they suck, but the stewards don’t quite have the nerve to tell Fran to change them, and Fran doesn’t like to admit to making a mistake.”
“Where have I heard that before?” We laughed.
The placard said: “Amazon Princess. Owner: Fran Donaldson. Trainer: Danny. Captured 1995.” Fran’s optical illusion marched around the outside. “No picture?”
“They only get one for a first at a national or the international. The Princess isn’t a racer; she’ll be Fran’s second senior trainer next year. Unless she suddenly decides you’re the driver of her dreams, she’s not going to go for it.”
“Then why?”
Sharon said, “Both Fran and Dreammaker think she needs to know how a racer feels from the inside, and they think her previous training leaves a lot to be desired. I don’t know about the training, but her current form certainly does.”
Danny said, “OK, open it up.”
“Uh, how?”
“Just grab it along the bar, with your thumb here.” Click. I jumped. The door followed me with perfect aplomb.
“Hidden fast release. We only use the locks when there are strangers present.”
Sharon said, “Now, look her over, and then go up and look her in the eyes.”
Amazon Princess was a brunette, about 5’10” and with the classic hourglass figure. She was kneeling on the display stand, feet out behind and secured with the ankle chains, head back on the headrest, arms locked to her sides, hands out. She looked like nothing so much as a begging puppy.
I stepped up and looked down into her eyes. Oh, my. That first look bounced around my soul. Her eyes widened, she whinnied and tapped her hoof twice.
“Oh, my.” I came up for air. “Does it always happen like that?”
“Almost never,” Sharon said. “You two are connected somehow.”
“What does it mean?”
“How should I know? You’ll need to talk it over when you groom her or she’s in girl mode.”
“Since you’re going to work her, you need to replace the ball gag with a bit,” Danny said. “The thing is, we don’t actually use a ball gag most of the time. That ball is a piece of window dressing. Here’s the tool you need.” He held out a tool. “You’ll get your own kit shortly. Unclip the ends from the bridle. Put it in the hole, like so, and squeeze the handle.” Click. “Now pull.”
The front end of a ball came out in my hand. “Put it in the tray over there.” Another squeeze, and the tool detached.
“Bits are in that drawer. You want one that plugs in like the ball.” I found it. “Now peel her lips back and plug it in.” A white mouthpiece with a hole in the center stared at me. Click. The bit settled in. Snap, Snap. It attached to the bridle. The bit had two metal pieces on the end that came down, almost like the drooping mustaches you see in old Chinese pictures.
“Next is to get her off the stand. That’s in three pieces. First, we do the ankle chains.” The ankle chains proved to be simple snap hooks. “Now, the headrest. That’s a bolt. Tell her ‘head up’.”
“Head up, honey.” She brought her head up a couple of inches. The bolt came out easily and the headrest lifted out.
“The next command is ‘up,’” Danny said. “Hold these two rings so they don’t bind.”
“Up.” She brought her legs forward to a squatting position, and then rose up smoothly.
“Off the stand,” Danny said. The Princess came two steps forward, and then stood.
“You put reins on her next.” He pointed. “Thread them through these rings on her shoulder straps.”
Clip Clop echoed around the cell for quite a while, interspersed with swear words. Danny scattered things on the floor, and had me trot the Princess around them. After a while, she was going where I wanted, when I wanted.
“Enough for one day. Put her on her stand.” I managed that without mishap. “Don’t put in the headrest. What do you want to do next?”
I blushed.
“OK, we do sex next.”
“Huh?” I’m afraid I don’t think very well when I’m so wet I’m practically dripping.
“Sex is part of their daily routine. We keep them happy, they keep us happy. Get a ring gag from the gag drawer, take her mouthpiece out, and put the ring in.”
He had me march her over to the bucking rack. That turned out to be a couple of parallel bars and some straps and clips. I had to bend her over and attach her bustier so she was held between the bars, parallel to the floor. Another rod went over her shoulders.
“OK, girl. Pull up your skirt, and have her do you.” By this time, I would have ripped it off myself, but the last shreds of sanity prevailed. That tongue sent me right over the edge. Since Danny had barely started on the other end, I came back for seconds. Moans, whinnies and grunts filled the cell for the next few minutes. The feeling bounced around and built up, and up, and up and away. That ceiling looked so lovely. Oh, well. I scrambled to my feet.
Danny finished buckling his belt. “Put her back on her stand.”
“Well,” Sharon asked, “how do you feel about your first sessions?”
“Um, confused. It all feels like it’s so ... inevitable? Right? Necessary? But parts are just wrong.”
“What’s wrong about it?”
“Well, you just don’t do sex like that. You should at least ask?”
“Why? I really mean that. She’s a perfectly normal female, at least sexually, who is in bondage 24 hours a day, six and a half days a week. She gets just as horny as anyone else. Keeping her sexually satisfied is just as much a part of the job as keeping her fed. She doesn’t have any choice about what and when she is fed, either. Or about when she’s worked, or for how long.”
“Uh, it’s still confused.”
“Look at it this way, then. She’s in pony mode. You don’t ask a pony anything. Eventually, you’ll have to deal with her in girl mode. Then, if you want sex with her, you have to ask. You’re confusing the two modes. In pony mode, you need to treat her like a pony. No choices. Distinguishing the two isn’t easy.”
“Oh, my. I didn’t realize. I’ll have to ... I’d be embarrassed out of my mind.”
Sharon laughed. “I know exactly how you feel. If it helps, everyone in the BDSM scene has been there at one time or another. So has just about everyone else, for that matter. Sleep on it. If you still have a problem, talk it over with Fran or Dreammaker.”
Jim Bate’s two ponygirls were erect and perky. Their eyes followed us everywhere. The place was clean and well lit.
“So what’s the problem? Everything looks ok, at least on a once over.”
“Staffing. I don’t have the time any more. I don’t even have the time to find out what needs to be done, let alone race them. Frankly, I’d like to get out from under, but I still want them. If that makes any sense.”
“Sure. How’s this? You board them at Fran’s, and she buys your staff. You contract with her for rehabilitation. It might even be cheaper than what this setup is costing.”
We worked out the details.
Karen sat on one of the tables. “OK folks. Settle down now. Everyone remember Melissa?”
Everyone had better, since I was standing there with everyone else.
“Well, Sharon bought out her father’s establishment yesterday. He’s boarding his two ponies with us; they’re in numbers 15 and 16. Neither of them speaks at all, or understands English, so expect the whole rehabilitation mess for the next six months or so. That shouldn’t be too bad, we’ve been through the drill before.”
“She also bought his staff. Let’s welcome Faye, Sid and Terrill.” Big round of applause, whistles, catcalls. “Faye, you stick to Tammy like glue. Sid, same with Danny. Terrill, you’re Fred’s shadow.”
“Mostly, we’re pretty loose around here. Fran is the big boss, but she doesn’t get involved with the routine, except when she’s doing training. Sharon is number two; she fills in for us when needed. The place you’re going to have the most trouble is seeing the same person as a pony one day, and a girl the next, and acting appropriately. If you have trouble with that, talk to Fran or Dreammaker.”
“Last thing. FROG.”
“RIBBIT!” They must have been practicing.
The meeting broke up laughing.
“Well, it looks like you’ve arrived,” Sharon told me. “Security always gets a bit antsy before giving one of these out.”
‘This’ looked exactly like the PDA hanging on my belt next to the prod. “So, what’s different about it?”
“Guess what happens if you press *2*?”
“You get the director of lensmen?”
She stared at it. “Somebody has too much time on his hands,” she muttered, darkly.
“Actually, it’s a direct line to Ponygirls. If you don’t put in anything else, you get Security.” She showed me how to set up a teleport.
“I need this?”
“Yes. You and the Princess are ready for competition.”
I goggled. “Huh? Dreammaker keeps implying I might be ready about the middle of the 22nd century.”
“I didn’t say a major show. You don’t fall out of the sulky, you handle the handoff on the start ok, you don’t run the Princess into another ponygirl or sulky, you hand off to her at the end acceptably, and you look good at the judge’s line. At the junior level, half the drivers can’t even do that.”
“How is this possible?”
“I’ll let you in on a secret. This stable has two part-time senior trainers, Fran and Dreammaker. Guess how many senior trainers there are on the entire owner’s circuit?”
“Uh, two?”
“Five. There should be fifty. At least. That’s why Fran wants you and the Princess to get the racing down, so she can send the Princess to senior trainer’s school.”
I looked at the race assignments. “It looks like there’s an open slot in the fourth. And an open ponygirl cell.”
Sharon said, “No way...” She looked over my shoulder.
From behind me, Fran said, “If it’s still open, do it. Melissa didn’t fall over herself driving you in practice.”
We made arrangements.
“Sharon, if we’re going to make a good showing in the owner’s parade, I need both you and the Princess in a practice session first. Can you stay over Thursday so we can get it Friday morning?”
Sharon just shook her head and marked up her schedule.
Karen and I both wore Fran’s racing colors. It’s a standard uniform for all ponygirl racers, modeled, so I am told, after Community styles. From the top down, I wore a fitted sleeveless blouse with a neckline that showed just enough cleavage to demonstrate I was a girl, not that the lines of the blouse left anything to the imagination in that respect. The bottom was a leather miniskirt, with 5” heeled calf length boots to finish it off. Karen wore a green trainer’s belt, I had a blue driver’s belt, both decorated with the usual hypersonic prod, whip, and cell phone and tool kit. From there, it went downhill rapidly. The blouse, skirt and boots were decorated with Fran’s racing colors. Those tri-colored red cubes with the shifting perspective were a guaranteed instant eyesore. I kept looking for the jester’s cap and balls.
Flying Squad and Amazon Princess wore Fran’s colors on their boots, bustier and puppy paw arm binders. Karen had the Squad and the owner’s cart; I had the Princess and the sulky. We were pulled up in one of the exercise areas in the center of our home track. I punched in the teleport. The cell phone said “One minute. I triggered Flying Squad’s and my sleepy gas canisters. Space did its usual obscenity. When we came to, we were in the center of another track.
A young woman in a black and white diagonally striped mini-dress stood at the edge of the practice area. “Mistress Melissa Bates? This one is called Sally.” Her collar agreed.
Mistress? Oh, right. Square root of -2. She led us out to the harnessing area in front of the on ramp, where we dropped the sulky and cart. We got our ponies on the traveling display stands without mishap. Karen pulled them down to the assigned cells, while I went to check in.
“Kathy!” I screamed. We hugged. “I won’t say you’re an eyesore if you don’t tell me that.”
“Ok, I won’t mention you’re an eyesore.”
“Who are you rooming with next year?” Her face fell.
“I’m probably not. No money for tuition.”
“Shit. Talk to you later.” I looked at her. “I may have a deal.”
I was up with Amazon Princess in the first.
Karen had the Princess in the ready circle. She came off the stand like a dream and marched to the sulky. I managed to get her hitched without either fouling the traces or pinching my hand. We had pole position six; she got to the starting line in plenty of time. I got my focus sufficiently that the starter’s pistol didn’t startle me; the whole start had that dreamlike quality of inevitability.
A quick check showed that three and four had some kind of problem. Five was away ok, but for some reason wasn’t moving toward the fence. I slowed the Princess slightly, and then cut her behind five. A burst of speed got us to the fence in first position. The rest of the field fell in behind on the turn, and I kept it that way.
Beginner’s luck? I’ll take it every time. A win is a win. And the Princess deserved a ribbon on her award shelf, even if this wasn’t going to get her a device. She grinned at me when I took out the bit. When I held out the filled chocolate, her tongue flicked out and captured it. Then she giggled, and opened wide for the ball gag.
Kathy got her pony to a clear second in the second race. As far as I could tell, the first place ponygirl and driver simply had the entire field outclassed. No competition.
She didn’t look happy. Turned out that she’d been promised next year’s tuition if she got a first. And she wouldn’t be driving any more unless she got that first.
“Not a chance in that field. Both you and your girl were simply outclassed. Tell you what, though. You’re a switch, right?”
“Yes. Somehow, I can’t seem to get in the middle. I either dominate or submit, and I have to do both.”
“Got a proposition. I’ll ask daddy for your tuition if you room with me and do the usual sub stuff. Then I can get you on Fran’s staff as a driver; that should do for the dom part.”
She looked intrigued. “Might work at that. What do you get out of it?”
“Not having to do my own cooking and cleaning. Daddy wants me to take one of Mother’s maids, but I won’t do it. They’re fine as maids, but I need someone I can talk to, or I live alone.”
She laughed. “If you can swing the money, I can swing a mop. Deal.”
The fourth was rough. Flying Squad was nowhere near Amazon Princess. We were on the outside pole again. She got to the starting line adequately; and came off the gun ok, if not brilliantly. We lucked out in that both four and five had problems, so I got her to the third lane ok. Then she didn’t respond to signals to speed up. That tore it; I knew exactly what she was capable of. I’d been monitoring her running machine just like I had monitored Amazon Princess’s.
“GET YOUR FUCKING ASS IN GEAR!” Swish! Crack! Smack! First time I had ever really used that whip with intent to make a point. She moved. We flew into first place on the fence just in time for the turn. After that, I had no problem.
I got enough speed out of her in the home stretch to get a good five seconds on the second place pony. We needed four of them on form, but we still came in first by a single point.
I looked her in the eye just before removing the bit. “Sharon, either you fix your attitude, or we’re going to have a long talk with Fran. You see what you can do when you try.” Then I took the bit out, and held out the filled chocolate. Her eyes widened. “You came in first. You deserve it.” She took it on her tongue and savored it. I didn’t think we’d have any more problems.
Left. Clip. Right. Clop. Amazon Princess and Flying Squad led off the owner’s parade in perfect synchronization. Karen drove in brunette splendor. Karen insisted I ride as owner; she’d had it with Sharon’s attitude and I’d done something about it. I had to keep pinching myself to make certain I wasn’t dreaming.
“Yeoweee!” Fran and Dreammaker hugged each other. They’d waited until we got ourselves organized, and then spotted the blue ribbons I had put on the pony’s breast rings. Hugs all around.
I left Flying Squad in pony mode that night, and worked her the next morning before letting her get into girl mode. There was a definite attitude change during the workout. I didn’t talk to her, and I don’t think Fran did. But it stuck. She let us put her nameplate up on cell 12, and scheduled regular workouts. I never heard another word about “As little as I can to keep the judges from rolling on the floor laughing.”
Fall term came around with the inevitability of the starter’s gun. Daddy didn’t come through with tuition for Kathy, but Fran did. As she put it, the only thing she needed more than good racing drivers was more senior trainers.
“That’s home? Cool!” Kathy exclaimed as the ivy-covered granite of our condo came into view. The circular towers on the four corners poked their way into the sky. Daddy had bought the third floor and the left rear tower. Now, that tower looked promising; might just be tall enough for a teleport.
Creak! Clank! The drawbridge came down in its stately massiveness. The Thunderbolt fit into the stall nicely. Kathy was still goggling. “The right front tower is really an elevator.” We hauled the luggage upstairs. Two big bedrooms with attached baths, living room, dining room, and kitchen. Daddy had gotten furniture for one. This didn’t bother us at all; a single bed was a lot friendlier.
Hamburger. Greasy. Fries. Greasy. Something in an aluminum can. “Kathy, honey. I guess I just assumed you could cook.” She looked like she wanted to cry. “Kathy, dear,” I held her. “You’re here because you’re a friend, not because I need a maid. I’ll do food, you just concentrate on the rest.” She relaxed. I shoveled the mess into the garbage and we went out for lunch.
The household system showed up that afternoon. Stacks of boxes and manuals. The only thing missing was the crew of installers. Just as well I’d decided to cook, Kathy wouldn’t come out of her trance for a while.
Our condo system is a marvel. Fran had gotten it for us; she wanted the same system for herself. We got to shake the bugs out. It was actually a very high-end commercial system that she had Ponygirls’ technical crew modify to improve the voice input past recognition. The sound front end could track several people and deal with simultaneous voices. While it was putting its own voice on the speakers. My only contribution was to insist on the voice actress that had done a spell checker on an incredibly old computer game; she just sounded like a computer should sound.
Beep. “You’ve got a call from Ponygirl’s marketing.”
“Put it on speaker, please.”
“Melissa? Could you do us a favor and make a pickup tonight?”
“Who, me?” I squeaked. “Or maybe why me?”
“You’re in the area, and Security just came through with your Community IDs for the fall national. They’re good until revoked, and we usually don’t revoke them. The girl is Bernadette Brady.”
“Teleport incoming.” sang the system.
“Bernadette? Isn’t she a student here?”
“I think I know her a bit,” Kathy said.
“Well, if you talk her out of it, I won’t weep. Too much. She fits the profile beautifully, but her family may be a problem.”
“Do tell,” Kathy said. “Melissa had better handle that; she’s out of my league entirely.”
“Bernadette, are you out of your mind?” Not the most usual telephone greeting, but it seemed to fit.
“Huh, what?”
“I’ve just gotten a pickup order that says you want to become a ponygirl. Have I got the right Bernadette Bradey?”
“Oh. Yes, that’s me. Who are you?”
“I’m Melissa Bates. I’m over in that fake medieval tower on 3rd street. Top floor. If you decide to go through with it, come on over. You won’t be seen leaving. Oh, and leave a note for your roommate. I know I’d appreciate it if Kathy decided to become a ponygirl without discussing it.”
“She knows. She’s here with me.”
“Well, invite her along. One more signature on the indenture always looks good.”
Jenny led Bernadette in on a leash. Bernadette turned out to be one of those 5’10” blondes that Ponygirls’ likes so much. I’m surprised there are any left in the wild. Jenny was a more normal 5’3” brunette, a bit on the plump side, but then, she wasn’t the one that wanted to become a ponygirl. The rest of the story is that daddy had threatened to disinherit Bernie if she didn’t marry this guy. Bernie, for her part, was a lesbian, and wasn’t about to marry any guy. Period. Other than that, she kind of liked daddy’s choice; as long as she didn’t have to get in bed with him. I sighed. Well into the 21st century, and some people still didn’t have a clue.
“Honey, didn’t they tell you that ponygirls get screwed daily? It’s in the job description.”
Jenny still had hold of the leash. Fortunately. I guess they hadn’t mentioned that.
“It’s not that bad,” Kathy said. “They turn you bisexual as part of the process. You’ll enjoy guys.”
That leash got another workout. Eventually, she calmed down, and turned her brain on. I hadn’t been sure she had one.
“Can they do that without my becoming a ponygirl?” Now that she was back down to earth, Bernadette got right to the point.
“I don’t know. System, get ponygirls’ marketing, will you? And put it on speaker.”
Marketing said he thought they could, but it was going to be expensive.
Jenny left, still leading Bernadette on her leash. Daddy had agreed to think about it, Bernadette had agreed to clean up her affairs if she still wanted to go through with being a ponygirl.
They were back in three days. Daddy had agreed to the medical expenses, but he wouldn’t accept a submissive with a taste for bondage as an heir. Period. Bernadette wouldn’t give that up. Period. So we had a little indenture signing ceremony. As her dominant, I had Jenny do the honors.
The honors started with a wide leather belt around the waist. Three roller buckles in the front, one large and several small rings in the back. The wrist and ankle cuffs snapped on; they would come off with finger and thumb on two points. The wrist cuffs secured to the back of the belt so her fingers couldn’t get any leverage.
She finished up with an external gag and a hood. “Here, Melissa, catch.” She threw me the leash.
Jenny had trained her well. She started with a tug, stopped with a shake of the leash. She didn’t stumble at all on the stairs up to the tower. I put on my breather mask. Zap. She crumbled. Hiss. I lay down on top of her before I fell over.
I came to and levered myself to my feet. Here was now a huge cavern; I was standing on a big number 2 painted in the middle of a square. It must have been 50 to 60 feet wide.
A golf cart with a big, beefy man hummed to a stop. “Melissa?” I agreed. “Care to ride, or do you want to lead her?” I got the distinct impression he would prefer we rode.
The cart hummed off toward a tunnel framed in marble. “Stop here on your way back.” He waved at a hole in the wall with a guard station. “They’ll get you back home.”
Light spilled out of Orientation Room 4 into the tunnel. “Here we are.”
Molly stuck me on a back table to watch. The whole procedure ran with well-practiced efficiency. The two hunks picked Bernie up and plopped her down on her stand; the ring in back of her waistband secured her to the pole. They yanked her shoes and clipped her ankle cuffs to short chains. She wasn’t going anywhere. The shoes made a trip to the wastebasket.
Molly took over. She gave Bernie a drink from a straw, and then hit her with both level 1 and level 2 prods. Bernie screamed convincingly. A few passes with a power scissors reminded me of exactly how little stood between me and nudity. Molly got rid of a pair of earrings, two finger rings, a bracelet and an ankle chain. Then she spent some time making detailed measurements and checking against readout.
She fastened livestock tags to her ears, and then put in breast rings about an inch below the nipple. A bridle and gag was the finishing touch. Finally, she twirled a blanket over the poor girl, and shoved the stand into the corridor. She maintained a relentlessly cheerful chatter the entire time. I almost expected Igor to come up and wheel the stand away. Maybe Ms. Igor?
Next week was the Fall Nationals. They were three days, twelve races a day, and sometimes as many as twelve ponies per race. The nationals had senior, intermediate and junior levels with both Classic and Miniature. With four racing styles and a variety of lengths, it could have gone on for two weeks without repeating.
Fran took a caravan. She took ten ponies, including Dreammaker, Flying Squad, Golden Spitfire, Amazon Princess, Red Chaser and daddy’s two. (need names). Kathy and I came as drivers, Karen headed up a team of five trainers. Everything packed into four owner’s carts and two sulkies. Daddy and Fran’s parents came along as owners.
Dreammaker and Flying Squad pulled Fran’s cart. Jeff’s two pulled his cart, the Spitfire and her pony pulled Lenore’s. Daddy’s two followed, with Daddy driving, his cigar (unlit) out at a jaunty angle. I followed with the Princess in a sulky, and Kathy pulled up the rear with Red Chaser. Daddy was in his element; I suspect he hadn’t expected to make a national.
Our little procession came out in the big cavern, smack on the number six. This time, we didn’t need a guide, Fran, Jeff and Lenore knew well enough where we were going. The tunnel said “Main Dome,” same as last time. When are they going to do an elevator that actually works fast? A band, or clowns, or something should have accompanied our procession to the track in the Main Dome. Oh, well. At least, I was here.
Our trip from the tunnel to the track shook me, badly. I’d heard occasional comments about the Community. In those few blocks, I must have seen a dozen or more ponygirls, being ridden or pulling carts. Not ours, not racing ponygirls, just ones that belonged here. It was the first time I had ever seen a lobo-ra, let alone a ponygirl being ridden.
Unpacking was a well-choreographed mess. Kathy and I had it easiest. We drove our sulkies into the track area, unhitched them in the slots we had been given, and marched our ponies up to their assigned cells. Fran and Jeff headed to the Executive dome to unload apartment stuff; Dreammaker and Flying Squad were going to stay there instead of at the track. Lenore and Daddy pulled theirs up into the cell area; they had all the tack, neatly labeled. Karen and her crew got everything settled. I used Golden Spitfire to pull the empty carts to their assigned resting places in the track area.
The Spitfire and I had an uneasy agreement. I had figured she wasn’t giving it everything the first time I worked her. She didn’t seem like the type for half measures, so I tracked her down on one of her days off, got her royally drunk, and got the story. Frankly, I agreed she had as much right to an attitude problem as anyone I knew. She couldn’t tell Fran where to stuff the indenture without going to the pen for God knows how many years. Tough. She’d dug the pit, now she could just admire the walls.
So I told her that until she decided to ditch the attitude and give it 100%, she was going to be my work pony. And if she gave me anything less than she gave everyone else, she was going to be in deep shit. We let it lie there.
The trainers stayed in an apartment in the Residential Dome. The rest of us crammed into Fran’s apartment in the Executive Dome. Kathy and I decided right away that if I cooked, and she served, we’d minimize hassles. It seems to have worked, at least, nobody complained about the cooking.
For the rest of the time, it was hectic. Karen was working off a printed, minute-by-minute schedule for the first time in my memory. The track had two ready circles; we couldn’t drive back-to-back races, which didn’t stop the stewards from trying to schedule them. The only thing that saved us was that there were a fair number of riding and light sulky races; we couldn’t enter them because the riders and drivers had to be lobo-ra. Kathy and I still did four or five a day, Fran filled in where needed. Fran did Dreammaker and the senior races; I did Amazon Princess, Flying Squad and Golden Spitfire. Otherwise, we just took them as they came.
The one that stands out was the fourth race on the second day. It was an intermediate where we had three ponies, fortunately, there was a riding race before, and light sulky afterwards, or we couldn’t have done it. I had locked eyes with the Spitfire in our pre-race planning meeting when she realized she and I would be racing against Fran driving one of Jeff’s ponies. OK, if she was going to pull out all the stops for a grudge match, I was willing.
The thing about intermediate is that it is mostly either young center ponies without much experience, older second rate center ponies with very good trainers but without that spark that makes for first raters, and a very few owners’ ponies that had the benefit of senior trainers. Which is why we had three ponies in this race.
We were at post position six. Kathy was in second, and Fran was in eighth. I realized we were in trouble before I even got her off the stand. “Careful, Carrie. Fury gets you in last, not first.” That shocked her back to sanity; she hadn’t realized I knew who she had been. After that, it was smooth. The start came off like it should. Three, four and five were center second-raters; we blew by them on the way to the third lane before they realized it. Kathy was running head to head with the first pony; I decided to see if the Spitfire could do it.
Swish, Crack. The Spitfire blew past the other two ponies into the first lane just in time for the turn. This time, it had been her idea to use the whip when I wanted overdrive. A quick check showed nobody was insane enough to try to pass on the curve. The second straightaway showed that Fran was right behind. Fran tried to pass on the next few straightaways; a flick of the reins was enough to get the Spitfire out in front until the next curve. The first time Fran didn’t try, I checked. Kathy was in second! She’d snuck up while Fran was trying to pass, so Fran had to fall back to third on the turn.
The Spitfire took the home stretch at a dead sprint, slowing down only at the finish line. I’d worried about that, but it was her grudge match. As it turned out, she had enough reserve to make the turn to the judges’ line and go onto one knee with good form. Kathy and Fran didn’t even try to match the sprint; we beat Kathy by seven seconds, and Fran by eight. With two lost for using the whip, and another four for form and that final sprint, we still came in one point ahead of Kathy and two points ahead of Fran.
Fran gave me a very strange look as we unharnessed.
“Carrie wanted a grudge match,” I said, quietly.
Fran looked startled. Then she did a double take when she realized I’d used Golden Spitfire’s former name. “I see.”
Eventually, it was over.
Fran demanded an explanation of that fourth race. I told her what the Spitfire had told me.
She laughed. “I can see how she thinks I did her in. It was a joint decision between the security head and her father; I was just left holding the bag. Don’t tell her; let me handle it. Her next career planning meeting is coming up shortly, I’ll take care of it then.”
We settled down at school for a couple of days. Then Jenny called.
“Hey, guys. Did you know there’s a ponygirl show on this Saturday?”
“Huh? It’s the weekend after the Fall Nationals. Everybody’s still catching their breath.”
“Oh, right. This isn’t your crew. It’s a regional BDSM society.”
“Then why us?”
“Well, they’re advertising a real ponygirl, and I thought you might know something about it.”
Oops. “Haven’t heard a word. Let me make some calls.”
We pulled up in the not so new, electric blue Thunderbolt. Sharon hadn’t known a thing about it either, so she joined Kathy, Jenny and me. Jenny wore her usual dom outfit, which was enough to make a cat laugh, unless the cat was a male human. Then he’d be drooling so much he wouldn’t even notice when she put the collar and leash on him. The rest of us wore a slightly augmented version of Fran’s street uniform, that is, white fitted blouse, black leather miniskirt and high-heeled pumps. It was almost as good in the male attraction department as Jenny’s. Karen and I wore our blue driver’s belts; Sharon wore a green trainer’s belt and black boots with 5” heels. We all brought our prods and whips.
The location was a nicely secluded farmhouse. “Car turning off. Guard system up.” Much better voice. We checked in as Mistress Mayhem (Jenny), Flying Squad, Melissa and Kathy. We hadn’t figured out any catchy names, and didn’t really want to. It wasn’t our scene. Jenny and Sharon circulated; Kathy and I let a guy attach us. He wanted to talk about details of tack, harnessing, bondage and all that stuff. We were more than willing to listen and make the occasional intelligent comment.
The differences were fascinating. This was a totally different world from what we were used to. There were three ponygirls and one ponyboy harnessed. Then two young women put up a sign “Pony for rent” and knelt under it.
“What the?”
“Their groom and owner didn’t show up. They’re looking for someone to take them on so they can see some action.”
Kathy and I looked at each other. Then we spotted Jenny and Sharon looking at us. Looked like a consensus to me. “Why not?” We headed over to them, trailing one very confused guy.
I guess they weren’t expecting the sign to get action quite that quickly. One minute, they put it up, the next they have six people towering over them (including one of the mistresses running the affair.) They’d brought their own tack and a sulky each. Sharon agreed to act as owner and show them; we’d play trainer and drive them. It looked like a fun afternoon.
“One thing before we get started. What do your owners do for discipline?”
“He’s got a light whip.” Her name turned out to be Whip Dancer.
“She yells, and then we have a screaming match afterwards.” Naturally enough, she was Blue Streak.
“I’d like to check something. This is called a hypersonic prod.” I waved the prod under their noses. “Tell me if the first level is ok with you for discipline, or if it’s too much.” I stroked both of them with the prod. They gasped.
“Is there a lighter setting?” Blue Streak asked.
“’Fraid not. This is as easy as it gets.”
“Well... ok, I guess.” Blue Streak looked like she was prepared to be cooperative.
“Ok by me,” Whip Dancer said, masochistically.
Their dressage could have been improved a bit. I would have given them a 7, maybe a 7.5. Not bad at all, considering. The only problem was when Whip Dancer acted up and had to be hit with the prod. Three times. The fourth time, Sharon told her to cut it out; we didn’t have a sado-masochism contract. The fifth time, Sharon hit her with a level two. After that, she behaved.
The races went off great. We didn’t try to win; as I told the ponies, we didn’t know their limits. If I called for more speed or a maneuver they didn’t think they could make, and they didn’t have it, so be it.
Everything wound down. We got the ponies out of harness. Sharon had brought a jug of mash in a cooler so we shared it around. The flavor of the day seemed to be roast turkey. It turned out to be an omen.
Sharon’s FBI backup showed up looking tall and competent. They blended in reasonably well.
The main event arrived towing a closed horse trailer. She came out with a perfect march step. That thick head of hair down to her ass was a dead giveaway. “No ear tags?”
“Looks like they’ve been removed,” Sharon said from under her binoculars. “I can see the holes.”
“Ok, let’s show ourselves and see what happens.”
She spotted us, stopped dead, and started whinnying and stamping her foot.
Sharon walked up to him. “Take that gag out. I want to talk to her.”
“Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“Sharon Samuels, in charge of compliance with the Consensual Slave Act for the Ponygirl Owners Association.”
“I don’t give a shit who you say you are. She’s mine, and you don’t monkey with her.”
Flip. One of the guys had moseyed up, quiet like. “FBI. Do what she told you. Now.”
WHINNNNNEEEEE. Both Karen and I ratcheted our prods up to level 3. He stared at the badge like he was hypnotized. Then he tried to make a break for his car and trailer.
“YEEEEEOOOOOOWWWWW!!!!” He went down in a tangle of convulsions.
“Gee, I’ve always wondered what level three would do,” Karen said, watching him in awe. The Feds picked him up, dusted him off, and hauled him away.
Karen and I got the pony calmed down. When we took out her gag, she told us part of the story. She was Bounding Cat. Her owner’s place had been destroyed, and all four girls kidnapped. Her captors had bragged that they made it look like a terrorist attack; everyone thought they were dead. The trainers certainly were. The guy who was showing her came later; he wasn’t one of the original kidnappers. We got her indenture date and phoned it in.
I told her she was going to Fran’s temporarily until things got straightened out. She knew about Fran’s; the ponygirl grapevine was quite good. They even had their own secure web site (on Ponygirls’ server). Meanwhile, could she see her way clear to putting on a show?
She could, and we did. Sharon put her through her dressage paces. She did a solo run, and Karen did a sulky run. Sharon and I commented on form. Everyone was totally floored by her speed.
We tried to beg off going to dinner with the crew, pleading that we didn’t have street clothes for Bounding Cat. No dice, three of the club members had come prepared with sweats that fit.
Fran called in the middle of dinner. Where were we? I explained. She had the Cat’s owner on the line; I tossed her the phone. The conversation switched to high speed Spanish. I never saw a girl look so relieved so fast.
We hit Fran’s about midnight. Jerry was doing the night shift, everyone else had gone home; all the ponies were down for the night. Sharon decided to stay over, so I groaned and agreed to work her in the morning. Jenny was fascinated, so I decided to use putting Flying Squad down as a demo.
“Don’t worry about talking, as long as you don’t scream or anything. The sleeping hoods are pretty good on muffling sounds.”
“Sleeping in bondage?” Jenny asked. “Isn’t that unsafe?”
“There’s an auditory monitor checking on breathing and heart rate. Jerry can get to any pony within less than a minute of an alarm sounding.” We reached Sharon’s cell. “By the way, forget you saw this. Since you’re an outsider, you’re not supposed to know there’s a fast release.” I grabbed the bars in a highly specific place, and held the door open for Sharon.
She stripped out of her clothes and put in the mouthpiece. “Hold it a moment. I want to show Jenny this.” Sharon obediently stopped and dropped to one knee.
“She’s already gone into pony mode,” I said. “Head back.” She tilted her head.
“See this mouthpiece? We use it here instead of the ball gag. It’s less stressful on the jaw, but it’s a lot more expensive. Each one is custom fitted to the pony’s jaw and teeth.”
“To your pad.” Flying Squad marched over to the pad and lay down. I grabbed the leg binder and tossed it to Jenny. “Put it on her.”
“Me?” Jenny squeaked.
“Yes, you. You’re a qualified domina. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a leg binder before.”
“Oh.” She put it on and zipped it up. “No lock?”
“No reason. These ponies wouldn’t be here if we were playing control games with them. No lock is safer in case we have to act fast.”
“Here’s the arm binder.” She put it on. “Now put them together.” Flying Squad was now in a classic hogtie.
I tossed her the straps. She looked around, and found the ringbolts. In a moment, Flying Squad wasn’t going anywhere.
“Hood next.” I put the hood over the top of her head. “This cuts out light, and muffles sound quite well.”
“Final touch. We put a pillow under her head.” I knelt and kissed her goodnight.
“Show you another wrinkle.” I walked over to the trotting booth. “This is the trotting booth. Either the trainers or I put in exercise programs, but it has its own built in heart rate and breathing monitor. It won’t let her go over her limits.” I flipped on the display.
“The display is hooked to the audio monitors I mentioned earlier.”
“She’s asleep already?”
“Sure is. The monitor knows her patterns. Too much deviation will trigger an alarm.”
“Wish we had something like that at the gym.”
“They’re coming. These things aren’t exactly custom, but they’re built specifically for a ponygirl cell.”
Karen had finished Bounding Cat, so we headed out. We stopped by Jerry on the way out. “I need to do a session with Flying Squad tomorrow before she goes to girl mode.”
Jerry pulled up the schedule. He looked at it. “Should be ready for you at 12:30. Be here by 12.”
“Can I come and watch?” asked Jenny.
“Should have asked earlier. It really requires Fran or Sharon to approve,” I said.
“I’ll leave a note for whoever grooms Flying Squad,” said Jerry. “She can say yes or no then. Also leave a note on Fran’s mail.”
We dropped Jenny off and hit the bed by one.
“Good Morning Sleepyheads,” sang the house system. Karen bounced out of bed into the bathroom. I crawled after her to the sound of the shower. Getting vertical helped. The aroma from the automated coffeemaker helped even more. The kitchen came into focus as the first cup of coffee percolated through my system. I don’t understand Karen. Computer programmers are supposed to live on caffeine; she doesn’t seem to need it. Maybe it’s because she’s a switch. Either she submits to the time, or she tries to dominate it. Whatever.
An hour later, we had breakfast inside of us, and were ready to face the day. Fran had approved having Jenny present. “See if she’s interested in driving. Or something useful.” I thought Fran might be there.
Jenny breezed in about 11:30. She wore a good looking set of jeans that had clearly seen some hard work. “Hey, you look great.”
“Hey, ‘lissa,” Karen called. “The Spitfire wants to talk to you. She didn’t say what about.”
I’d just finished working Flying Squad on starts and finishes. Sharon was dressing. I didn’t have the Spitfire on my schedule; no time today. “Do you know what about?”
“No, she just passed a message from grooming this morning.”
“Question. Did she just have her career planning session with Fran?”
“Yes, why?”
“Then I know roughly what she wants to talk about.” I walked down to the Spitfire’s cell. She was in the trotting booth doing a full gallop. Now was not the right time. “Tell her at my place on her next day off, unless it’s really urgent. Call ahead.”
“Should be tomorrow, then. That’s her usual day off.”
I checked my schedule. “Tomorrow about 6 in the evening. Tell her not to eat unless she absolutely hates veal scaloppini. She may be late in; I’ll take responsibility.”
“OK, it’s on your head.”
“Incoming Teleport,” the house system announced portentously.
“Give me an intercom channel up there.”
“Done.”
“Hey, Spitfire, is that you?”
“Uh, yes. That you, Melissa?”
“Sure is. Just go down the stairs to the first door. It’s about three floors.”
The Spitfire is a 5’10” green-eyed golden blond with a complexion to kill over. She’d told me it wasn’t her original look, Fran had redone her hair, eyes and complexion. Her only complaint about it was that she hadn’t been asked, but then, she readily admitted, she wouldn’t have agreed. That was five years ago.
She was dressed in Fran’s street uniform; black leather miniskirt, white fitted blouse and calf length black boots with 5” heels. The uniform tended to keep her girls out of trouble. Anyone knowledgeable enough to spot her as a ponygirl would be knowledgeable enough to keep hands off; for anyone else, the uniform and the pony cut were just bizarre enough to induce caution.
I grabbed her on the way in and gave her a huge bear hug. She struggled a moment, and then relaxed into it. When we came up for air, Karen grabbed her cape and hung it up. She stared at Karen.
“Huh, what?”
Not really original, but Karen was worth staring at. We’d had one of our rare arguments, and she’d won. She was dressed in a French maid bondage outfit, complete with hobbles, collar and gag. The outfit was courtesy of Jenny, who was becoming something of a regular at our place.
I laughed. “Karen is a switch. Like Sharon.”
“A switch?” she said, weakly.
“She needs to be dominant part of the time, and submissive part of the time. She’s mostly submissive here around me, so she can be dominant at Fran’s and for school activities. I wanted her to join us as relative equals, she wanted to serve. She won. If you don’t want her to listen, we can hood her.”
“That’s ok. Does being a ponygirl make me a submissive?”
“Darned if I know. I expect you’re a dominant that’s being sat on. But you might be a submissive that was into rebellion big time. Or something else.”
The veal was ready. Karen served dinner. We chatted about current shows; that’s what the Spitfire had been amusing herself with on her days off. I don’t really have a “no business at dinner” rule, but I do have a “no arguments and don’t be boring” rule. Eventually, dinner was over, and we sat back with a bottle of wine.
“So, what happened with Fran?”
The Spitfire started, then laughed weakly. “Right. First, the good news is that they changed my sentences so they run concurrently.”
“So you’re out from under in?”
“Slightly less than two years.”
I lifted my glass. “That sounds great.”
“It is. The thing is, she hit me over the head about slacking off. And she told me about daddy.”
“Having your father send you down is a tough one to swallow, all right. As far as slacking off goes, you know the only person you’re hurting is yourself.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Well, you seem to be the kind of person that goes all out, no holds bared, take no prisoners. Holding back just isn’t in your nature. Trying is hurting you.”
She sat back for a moment. Then she carefully put her glass down, and collapsed, crying. I picked her up and held her until she cried herself out.
“It’s been so hard... It hurts... “
“Of course it has.”
Eventually, she came up for air. Something was different. The petulance was gone. I hadn’t even realized it was there in the first place.
“Now what?” I asked her.
“I need to apologize to daddy.”
“Tell the system the phone number.”
“I’ve... forgotten it. It’s unlisted.”
I got the number from Security. They’re real handy, as long as you don’t overdo it. He was still at his office, working.
“Senator McWhip. What can I do for you?”
“Daddy? It’s Carrie. I need to apologize.” She started crying again. I held her.
“Carrie! Fran didn’t tell me you’d be calling. How are you?”
“She doesn’t know. I’m calling from Melissa’s. She’s my driver. I’m very... shaky. It’s good just hearing your voice.”
“It’s good hearing you. Where can we talk? I want to hear all about it.”
“Uh?” She looked at me.
“Senator, I’m Melissa Bates, your daughter’s driver. She can meet you anywhere, I’ve already told the staff she may be out late. Um, how much has Fran told you?
“Nothing. I hate to admit to being a coward, but I didn’t want to deal with it.”
“I understand. She doesn’t look the same any more. Fran did a complete makeover; hair, eye color, skin tone. My place is probably best. You need to make the arrangements with Ponygirl’s Security, they know my teleport coordinates. And that’ll protect you as well.”
“OK. Try for about a half hour.”
I do so love reconciliations.