Two burly attendants entered Rachel’s room without bothering to knock. It was 5 a.m. Still groggy with sleep, Rachel was shoved into the shower and the cold water was turned on full force. She came up off the floor right into the arms of the two men. One of them pushed a button on his remote and the link fell off Rachel’s ankle ring. A chain was looped twice around her ankles and padlocked. The end was looped through her handcuffs and locked to her ankles, hogtying her so that she would lie on her belly for the trip.
Bodily they lifted her and walked out the door. She was placed in a waiting cart. She got a quick glimpse of the cart as they loaded her. It was of antique vintage, made of rough boards, with wood-spoked wheels, of course without springs. Instinctively Rachel knew she would feel every pebble between the Fat Farm and the Pony Farm. She knelt in her chains, waiting. A hand pressed her into the bottom of the cart.
The driver glanced back at Rachel, cracked his whip and the two pony girls leaned into the harness and got the cart rolling.
The high sides of the cart limited Rachel’s view of where they were going. She could see the backs of the two ponies, already sweating, although the morning was cool. The mere sight of their naked, welted backs triggered a complex reaction in Rachel. She knew enough of the pony girl culture to know that her life was about to get much harder. The submissive side of her nature was literally jumping with joy at the thought of being forcibly turned into an animal, a ‘beast of burden.’
Her husband had whipped her, but was always careful to leave only token welts. Now, she would have to contend with ‘real’ whippings and other disciplinary measures. She had no real qualms about it, beyond her natural fear of the unknown or the unexpected. As a dyed-in-the-wool masochist, she looked forward to the expected harsh training. She wondered if it would affect the way her husband treated her. She had pretty well convinced herself that he would pry every detail out of her and then refine them into his own, private Pony Farm.
Grimly, she knew she would lose the weight. The attendants worked on a commission basis, getting paid for each pound lost, so they were ready and willing to try anything, do anything to make her lose it. At least anything, short of hacking a chunk of fat off her belly. If she had to suffer, so much the better. The perks of their job included unlimited sexual usage, written clearly in the contract her husband had signed, but not in hers. It was by no means the only ‘surprise’ in the fine print.
Her problem had been in keeping the weight off. That was why she was back in the Institute for the third time. Her husband had tried to duplicate the Institute’s methods, but there were simply too many loopholes that Rachel took full advantage of, stuffing herself at every opportunity.
He had finally put his foot down. She would go back to the Institute for ‘remedial training’ or he would personally build a dungeon in the basement, lock her in it permanently and keep her on a starvation diet. She knew him well enough to know he would go through with it, so she reluctantly agreed to return to the Institute.
Her husband immediately punished her for not instantly agreeing to go back and then she was caned a second time for leaving him without his bed warmer for an indefinite period. He warned her quite forcefully that she would get a repeat when she got back, the severity linked to the length of her stay. Rachel suspected, with good reason, that she would be greeted at home by a full fledged dungeon, a threat turned into a promise, and then reality.
For some reason, her trip to the pony farm in the cart did not seem to be going well. Rachel could hear the repeated crack of the buggy whip and the yelps of the ponies as it connected with their bare flesh. The two men were cursing the ponies, accusing them of shirking, slacking and worse, punctuating each charge with a whistling crack of the whip which the driver wielded with considerable expertise.
She could tell that the cart had slowed and the wheels were bumping over fair size rocks, so she assumed they were climbing a hill. When they reached the crest, one of the men said something, half under his breath, jerked the reins and applied the whip, calling them ‘lazy bitches.’
The downslope was steep enough for the cart to pick up speed on its own. Soon the girls were running, knowing if they fell the cart would run right over them. Rachel could see the brake, but the driver made no move to use it, continuing to pop his whip of the running ponies.
The cart slowed as the road flattened out. The driver heaved back on the reins, stopping the ponies. He slid around the seat and lifted Rachel, balancing her on the sideboard until his partner could get in position to catch her. He stood her on her feet. Then he unfastened a thin chain and locked it to her collar.
He warned her, "We don’t look back for the likes of you very often, so don’t fall down or you might get dragged a far piece."
Rachel, unsure of what to do, merely nodded. The man took offense, but the driver interrupted, "Time to get cozy when we get there. Let’s go."
The whip cracked, the ponies broke into a trot and Rachel found herself running, the first time in ages. She didn’t have the weight of the cart behind her, but long unused muscles were quick to complain about the unseemly gait. Fortunately they had less than a quarter mile to go.
The two ponies were winded and Rachel was breathing hard, drawing air deep into their lungs as the two men escorted her to the one story building that was the Pony Farm headquarters.
The Pony Farm Manager, Bruce Fannon, greeted them as they came in. A secretary working at another desk barely looked up. Rachel looked at the floor and spotted the square where she would be required to stand. The men shoved her forward to the square.
"Has she paid her freight?"
"Nope. Wanted to make sure we got her here on time."
The driver turned and stood in front of her.
"Kneel!"
Rachel’s eyes widened. She was used to the system, but normally it involved only one or two Attendants. Here she had three men and a woman watching her perform.
The driver raised his whip. Hastily Rachel dropped to her knees, repeating the humiliating formula, and swallowed his cock. The man was in a hurry, a fact he drove home with a crack of the buggy whip. She finished him off with a flourish and the other man quickly elbowed him aside and presented an already unsheathed cock. She still had to repeat the formula, but once that was out of the way she made quick work of emptying his balls. Not much of a breakfast, but all she would get.
Bruce thanked them, but warned: "Use rubbers on the ponies. They’re not losing weight fast enough. Don’t you run them at all?"
The driver snorted: "Ran ‘em full speed, all the way down the hill out onto the flat. They was right winded when we got here."
"Next time, put a couple of hundred-weight of sand in there. Give ‘em something to pull."
The men left. Rachel, awaiting orders, remained kneeling in the square. Bruce inspected her.
"Stand up. Spread your legs."
She felt his hand, probing. Rachel flushed, knowing his fingers would come away wet.
"Clean them." confirmed it.
"You any good on women?"
"Sir, this pig has never done a woman."
"Lucille! Get your ass over here. We have a virgin tongue for you."
Rachel watched in amazement as the secretary got up from her desk, stripped off the dress that was her only garment and walked quickly to stand in front of Rachel.
"Routine is the same, except you ask permission for cunt instead of cock."
"Yes, Sir!"
Rachel had two choices and two seconds to make up her mind. She chose to follow orders.
Lucille might as well have been in the privacy of her boudoir. She concentrated on Rachel, moving close and spreading her legs wide.
Rachel made a tentative pass with her tongue. Lucille critiqued.
"Gotta be ten times harder and three times deeper! Dig in, pig."
Rachel thrust her whole body forward, lifting her face and jamming her nose into Lucille’s pubic bone, her tongue turned into a battering ram.
"Ahhhh! That’s got it! Go, pig, go!"
Despite her lack of experience, Rachel took Lucille from a cold start to a screaming climax in less than five minutes. Rachel continued to lick, but Lucille was way too sensitive to continue so she backed away and closed her legs, signaling ‘enough.’
Bruce was leaning on the counter, enjoying the show. So much so that his pants were pushed out unmistakably. When Lucille backed away he motioned her back to her desk. He came around the counter and pressed his cock against Rachel’s nose. Obediently she recited the routine. Bruce stopped her at the point where she would ask to kiss the head.
"How many cock jobs have you done this morning?"
"Sir, this pig has done two."
"That’s your quota for the morning."
He went to his desk and came back with a packaged condom.
"You ever put one of these on?"
"Sir, this pig has never done that."
She moved her hands, making noise with the cuffs to remind him. He ignored the signal. He tore open the foil and placed it over the head of his cock.
"Now, use your mouth and tongue to unroll it down my prick."
Rachel quickly learned how to unroll it, limited her gagging to two minor incidents and got it all the way to the root. She backed off and asked permission to continue.
She had never had a rubber in her mouth, so the strange sensation of the thin membrane on her tongue took some getting used to, but before long she had Bruce excited and hard, thrusting into her mouth and she felt the tip swell against the entrance to her throat when he spurted.
Afterward, he removed the rubber himself, allowing her to clean his shaft, but cruelly, he made her repeatedly spit out the semen she was gathering, denying her the slightest benefit from it. She was already suffering hunger pangs, missing the meager, tasteless goop that they were served three times a day.
Rachel watched as Bruce took the rubber and the plate and walked over to the secretary’s desk.
"Here’s a treat for you. Just don’t make a mess on the paperwork."
"Oh! Thank you, Sir! Thank you, Sir! Thank you, Sir!"
Bruce grimaced and waved his hand at her. She stopped talking instantly.
Bruce took his time stuffing his cock back in his pants and zipping them up. Rachel remained on her knees, awaiting orders. At last it came.
"Stand up!"
He walked around her, shaking his head and muttering to himself. When it got louder, Rachel could make out the words.
"Damned dumb asses, always got to fuck up the orders."
He walked up to her and started unlocking and unbuckling straps, slinging them across the room into a corner. His impatience grew with each strap.
He got his face into hers.
"You are a pony, a fucking human pony. All the damn straps in the world aren’t going to change that. You get a collar, wrist cuffs, ankle cuffs and a belt and that is all you get, and all you wear!"
Rachel had no idea how to react to his outburst. She was caught in the middle of some sort of mid-level dispute between the Attendants and his rule here at the Pony Farm. She was relieved to be out of the straps, but the last thing she wanted was to somehow get blamed for this episode. She kept silent, but decided to kneel, as a precaution.
Still cursing, Bruce went back behind his desk and started moving papers around.
"Where the fuck is the paperwork on this pig?"
"Right here, Sir."
Lucille was on her feet and at the counter, pointed to the envelope, but making sure she didn’t touch it.
Bruce waved her away, grumbling as he slit open the envelope. He dumped the contents behind the counter, reading the pages one by one.
"Twenty five pounds." He raised his head and glared at Rachel.
She flushed.
"Yes, Sir! This pig needs to lose 25 pounds."
"We haven’t had a 25-pounder in months. A pity."
Rachel pondered the aside. Something new to worry about. She hadn’t the slightest idea what he was referring to, but she was sure it meant more problems for her.
He went back to reading. After a minute he whistled, looked up at her again and raised an eyebrow.
"Third visit. No wonder they put all those straps on you! Is that true?" He knew it was, but wanted to hear her admit it.
"Sir, this pig has been here twice before."
"Then you know all about the Pony Farm."
"Sir, this pig knew nothing of this until she was told last night that she was being sent here."
"Shit! That means I gotta indoctrinate you. Or............ Lucille, where is Old Pony?"
"Sir, she’s on the Trainer."
"Get her ass in here, right now!"
"Yes, Sir!"
The secretary hurriedly grabbed the key hanging on the wall behind the counter and almost ran down the hall. Rachel heard the door slam as she went out. Bruce continued to read. Apparently they had included a full description of her previous stays, the punishments she had earned and the Doctor’s recommendations for her current assignment to the Pony Farm.
She heard the door open and a gust of wind blew down the hall, scattering the papers. The secretary scurried directly into a blast of curses as he reminded her the hundredth time to shut the door before everything in the place blew away. He ended up by punishing her.
"You sleep with the ponies tonight. Full chains!"
"Yes, Sir! Thank you for your lenient punishment."
Rachel shifted her gaze, without moving her head, looking at ‘Old Pony.’ Her jaw dropped.
‘Old Pony’ was a stunning blonde, with shoulder-length hair, tits that made Rachel’s ample torpedoes look like pimples and a face that could grace any movie poster. At first glance, Rachel guessed her to be, at worse, in her late 30s. A detailed look would catch the subtle signs that she was ‘perhaps’ a decade older than that. Whatever her age, she easily qualified for the catch phrase, ‘Well preserved.’
Men would describe her as ‘Easy on the eyes,’ especially since she was as naked as Rachel, all the male attracting parts plainly visible. She did have one thing that Rachel didn’t have - a four foot length of heavy steel pipe held firmly against her back by her elbows. Her wrists were locked in cuffs attached directly to her metal belt. Putting two and two together, Rachel figured Old Pony was pulling something with the eye-bolt screwed into the center of the pipe.
"Tell her what your problem is."
"Old Pony, This pig needs to lose 25 pounds. This is my third trip to the Fat Farm, so they sent me here."
Bruce added, "They never told her about the Pony Farm, so you get to indoctrinate her. Like always, she only answers to ‘pig.’
"Yes, Sir! Right away, Sir."
"Finish your run when you’ve got her up to speed."
"Yes, Sir!"
She motioned with her head to Rachel. "Follow me, pig."
"Yes, ma’am."
Old Pony led the way, stopping to let Rachel open the door. "As little as possible. The wind always blows from that direction."
Rachel gasped. Miles of gently rolling low hills spread away into the distance, empty, except for a lone cactus or two. There was a smallish tent off to one side.
"Where...... Where is the barn.... the stables?"
Old Pony motioned her head toward the tent.
"That’s it, right there."
"You’ve ‘got’ to be kidding! All the money they charge for the Fat Farm and this is the best they can do? A tent, for chrissakes!"
"That’s it, right there," Old Pony repeated.
"Well, I hope to hell they have some decent beds in that tent......"
She stopped, seeing Old Pony slowly shaking her head.
"We sleep on the ground."
Rachel opened her mouth, but the enormity of it held her mute. Nothing in her wildest nightmares prepared her for this! A tiny voice at the back of her mind piped up.
"Dummy! Do you think they want you back a fourth time?"
"What happens when it snows, .... or rains?"
"We sleep on the office floor. We have to participate in an orgy to earn that much. At least it’s halfway warm."
"I can just imagine! Don’t any of the girls raise a fuss?"
"The first things they beat you for is any kind of complaint. They will beat you for any order that is disobeyed or any rule that is broken. My advice to you is never to complain, obey every order willingly and never knowingly break a rule."
"Knowingly?"
Old Pony forced a laugh.
"Bruce and the ‘boys’ get bored, so they think up new rules, after we have done something - anything. All rules here are retroactive. You can get punished today for farting a year ago. You can’t do anything about those, but be damned sure you obey the published rules to the letter."
Rachel chose her words carefully, "Now, that leads to the question that I know you are waiting for, as every new pony surely asks it. Old Pony?"
She chuckled. "They do ask it. I didn’t ask for the name. I finished the course at the Fat Farm, got rid of the 40 pounds I’d tacked on and was all set to go home. My then-husband argued with them over the bill and refused to pay it. They pretty much held me as a hostage. When their lawyer couldn’t get it resolved, they moved me in the dead of night out here."
"To make a long story short, he’s now my ex-husband so nobody will pay the bill and the charges, even out here, keep mounting up. Since I’m older than almost all of the pigs that come out here, one of them called me ‘Old Pony,’ and the nickname stuck. Even the staff call me that now."
"Do I dare ask how long you’ve been out here, or will that knock me over?"
"My fifth anniversary was two weeks ago."
"That rotten, son of a bitch! I’d stomp his balls up behind his eyeballs."
"I wanted to do that, and a few dozen other painful stunts, but there’s no way out of here unless someone on the outside bails you out."
"They said that once I became a pony girl, they would sell me back to my husband, or to someone else who wants a pony girl."
"Oh yes. That’s one of the booby traps in the fine print of the contracts that you signed and your husband signed. They tack on one hell of a bill for the training, then if your husband won’t pay, they can get twice or three times that from, as they said, ‘someone else who wants a pony girl.’ About once a month two or three men come in and inspect the girls. We know they aren’t husbands, as they aren’t allowed to visit us. Usually one or two of the girls turn up missing the morning after these men have been here."
"You’re obviously in fine physical condition. Why don’t you make a run for it?"
"First of all, I have no idea where I am. The husbands or boy friends know, because they have to bring us here and, pick us up when our ‘sentence’ is over. I’m y sure it’s one of the western states, what with the cactus and desert, but I know there are places out here where the wrong direction would take you scores of miles from civilization. You can’t carry enough water to guess. I’m sure they have the local sheriffs in their pocket, which means we wind up right back here."
"In the five years I’ve seen two girls try it. One got less than a mile, the other got about three miles before they were caught. They walked them back, with whips. They made the rest of us watch as they buried two 55-gallon drums up to the side vent, put the girls in and locked the lids."
"They left them in the drums for two days. Every hour, day and night, the Attendants would come out with sledge hammers and beat the drums. You could hear them for miles, so you can imagine what it was like inside the drums. We had to feed them through the vent. Anytime anyone came near the two girls they would cry and beg. They would put their mouths to the vent and offer to do anything in order to gain their release. See, over against the side of the building, there are the drums, waiting."
"The Attendants lined us up again to watch when they released them. They had to kneel and give head to the three men before they were allowed to rejoin us."
"To impress the point we were put in two lines and each of us were handed a whip. The two girls had their wrists locked to their collars and were hobbled with a very short chain."
"Then, Bruce snapped his whip to get our attention. He announced, "Each of you is to get a minimum of two hard strokes on each girl. We will be watching and if you fail, you will follow these two pieces of crap through the gauntlet."
"We knew that, to be on the safe side, we’d have to give them three, to make sure at least two got counted. Even with three, the Attendants picked a couple of ponies and claimed they didn’t participate. We had to whip them too. After that nobody expressed the slightest interest in escaping."
"Where are the other ponies?"
"They’re on the daily run. We run a quarter mile in the morning before breakfast and a half mile after lunch."
"What happens between breakfast and lunch?
"Calisthenics, weight lifting, treadmill, stair stepper, rowing machine, wrestling - if it’s exercise you will do it. There are no rest periods. Then, there’s cart training, high stepping, and last but not least the Trainer and the punishment winch."
"In other words, I go from zero exercise to day long exhaustion in a single day."
"You do. You do it every day, seven days a week and they don’t spare the whip. By the time you leave, you will be able to do 20 chin ups with a pony hanging on each leg. You will also be able to do 30 one hand push ups or 30 regulars with an Attendant on your back. Those hulks weigh close to 300."
What happens if you have to pee?"
"You get permission, run a hundred yards from the group, turn and face the Attendant, squat, pee, and run back. As I said, no rest periods."
"Where do they keep all the carts and stuff? And, where do the Attendants live?"
"Both answers are the same. The equipment is in the basement, along with an underground garage for the carts."
"Bruce has a suite in one wing of the office building, which you don’t want to visit for any reason, and the Attendants have an apartment in the other wing - which you ‘really’ don’t want to visit. Not that you have a choice."
"If they give you the finger, crooking it to mean ‘Come here’ or ‘Follow me,’ you smile, dredge up all your suppressed enthusiasm and obey willingly and immediately. Some of the worst punishments inflicted in this place are for resisting an order or the slightest sign of reluctance. I can show you specific scars inflicted for ‘lack of enthusiasm."
Rachel shook her head, trying to clear it. Through her own negligence she had gotten herself into a self-perpetuating trap. She had no options - only to obey orders and hope for a miracle to get her out the Pony Farm. Her first order of business was to get rid of the 25 pounds of fat she was carrying. From what Old Pony was telling her, she would have plenty of unwanted help in the process.
As long as Old Pony was in a talkative mood, Rachel continued to pump her. There were a couple of topics that never got an answer, Old Pony having a deft hand at changing the subject.
"What did they do to you after you got rid of your required weight?"
"They had a neat trick for that. Of course they weigh us every day. When they took me to the scale, they left the leg weights on. I’d long since learned not to complain, so they punished me on the Trainer, a leftover from when this was a working ranch."
She took a few steps forward and pointed around the end of the building. A slim pole was hanging from the tip of an upright. A cable hung down with a hook to attach to the eyebolt on the pipe trapped in Old Pony’s arms. Once fastened, she was set to perform endless circles at the end of the cable.
She wiggled the pipe by moving her arms.
"They weigh me with this, so I’m a good 10 pounds underweight now. They feed me a special diet that makes me gain weight so they can continue to punish me."
"How many ponies are there, out here?"
"Counting you, 13. You’ll be in the Novice class for the first month. After that, the desert is the limit."
She moved her head from side to side, taking in the vast expanse of nothing.