She pawed at the straw in her stable, trying to kick some of the soiled straw over into a corner. If she could only reach up to the itch between her naked shoulder bladesÖbut no, that was not to be the case, not with wrists tied to the leather belt locked around her waist. That belt chafed her, but nothing like the belt that went between her soaking thighs.

The day was growing late; what little sun remained cast an orange golden glow over the stable walls. Thankfully the heat had begun to break some in the South Carolina fall. She remembered the summer heat of August, the oppressive humidity that sapped her body and her mind as she struggled to learn a new life ñ the life of a thoroughbred ponygirl.

How quickly her genteel ways had disappeared under the pressure of keeping the plantation alive, even keeping herself alive. And now she had even become grateful for the rude wooden bucket of food placed at the head of the stable where she bent over feeding, her legs spread. No longer did she worry at all about the view from behind. God help her, she had grown accustomedÖno, more like desiring out of some unholy lustÖyes, lust was the right word, lusting to be seen from behind as nothing more, nothing less than a mare in heat.

She rubbed her back against the stall walls already worn smooth by generations of horses also trying to scratch.

She wasnít gagged now. She had grown mostly past that stage. In the earliest days she had worn the bit constantly. She remembered her distaste at her worn bloomers twisted up and behind the bit. That was the final humiliation, she thought, the humiliation that had crushed her only to release the sweet female fragrance of servitude.

She paced a bit in the stall, still irritated, aroused by the leather strap between her legs, unable to even reach the lock that fastened to the waist belt. The new plantation Master had been pleased to find that her elbows could be made to touch each other with the firm tie of hemp rope.

So much time now, she thought, so much time to think. Except when she was in harness working fields or pulling a sulky, what she had never had before she now hadÖtime. And she thought about that first day, the day her life had changed.

Marybeth wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, wiping at the stinging sweat without much luck. She stood up for a moment from her laundry scrubbing behind the outside kitchen. The dog days of August were as fierce as a furnace. When times were good, her daddy had enough sense to get the family away from the plantation at that time and down to the cooling ocean breezes. There wouldnít be any more of that, she thought with a grimace.

ìMiss Marybeth, I need to speak with you if you can spare the time,î the soft, strangely cultured voice behind her spoke.

Marybeth glanced over her shoulder at Samantha, the last of the freed slaves left on Brimley Plantation. She knew what Samantha wanted; she could tell by the look in her eyes. It had been that way with every other freed slave since the first one left for the Western Territories in November of 1865.

ìYou donít have to say it, Samantha,î she said more tired than death itself. ìYou didnít have to stay this long, but Iím glad you did.î

ìMiss Marybeth, Iím sorry to leave, but the Freedmen Society has told me that they can get me a job, a real job,î she hesitated, ìand I know itís not your fault you can't pay me. Thereís just no cash, and you always treated me real fine, andÖî

Marybeth never turned around. She was just too tired to talk anymore. Samantha stood still for a minute and left, the last Marybeth ever saw her. She finished and came into the indoors kitchen, sat at the table and sobbed. Now what to do, she wondered. Her misery seemed to know no depths until the sun was setting over the pines. Her mother dead of consumption, her daddy and brother away at war and no word. No word? No, she knew, somehow she knew; they were not coming back. Not now. Not ever.

ìHello, the house!î

The sudden voice at the front of the mansion made her jump. Who could this be, she wondered. Nobody comes here any more. It was a fine mansion, a fine plantation, once upon a time. Ladies and gentlemen with handsome footmen arrived at the front door for tea or balls. But that was a lifetime ago.

She crept around a corner past some dogwood. Astride a fine chestnut sat Colonel Murphy, owner of the Whitehall Plantation next to her own but with more and richer bottomland. His cotton crop had gone bust the same as hers, but somehow he had managed to keep a number of former slaves employed. Where could the money be coming from? Her eyes narrowed.

He tipped his hat in the sinking light. ìGood evening to you, Miss Brimley. I was wondering if perhaps I might come in to visit with you for a spell?î

ìWhy, Colonel, how kind of you to stop by. But I am afraid I have nothing to offer you in theseÖhard times.î

Marybeth couldnít see the smirk on his face in the half light. ìîWell, Miss Brimley, perhaps I have something to offer you in theseÖhard times.

Marybeth motioned him around to the side door and into the kitchen. A few short years ago she would never have dreamed of entertaining in the mansion kitchen of all places. But she never dreamed that she wouldnít be able to even offer a guest a cup of tea.

He waited for her to sit. She could barely see his face, there being no lamp oil either. So dead tired, she hadnít the energy to even ask him why he would come to Brimley Plantation.

ìMiss Brimley, I will not mince words with you nor make small talk. You were indeed right. The times are indeed hard. If it had not been for my willingness to cooperate with Union forces, to help prepare the way for a new SouthÖî

She didnít respond.

ìWell, Miss Brimley, Iíve come to make you an offer, an offer for the plantation.î

Marybeth could feel his eyes staring at her across the table. ìAnd what, sir, would you want with my run-out land? There is no cotton, not anymore. Weíve all lost our slaves. I canít even keep them hired on. You saw Samantha leave no doubt. Iím hungry myself. Thereís not a thing in the pantry, and IÖî she finally broke down, sobbing again.

The Colonel waited her out. The darkness settled in. ìMiss Brimley, do you have at least a candle about?î

Marybeth sniffled and stood up. She appeared in a bit with a stump of a candle which the Colonel lit and placed between them.

ìAs I see it, Miss Brimley, you donít have much of a choice. Yes, I want this land, and I think it highly doubtful anybody will return to claim it,î he said looking down and then staring straight at her. ìBut what I really want is you.î

ìMe?î Marybeth asked, her eyes wide and uncomprehending.

ìYes, I want you,î he said taking a deep breath. ìI want Brimley Plantation as a sort of brothel, if you willÖdonít look shocked, I know that you know what the word means. I will pay off your debt in Union greenbacks. You in turn will deed me the plantation. But you come with it.î

ìColonel Murphy, you are no gentleman!î

ìThat much is true. But Brimley Plantation will be no normal brothel,î he said and then leaned across the table, ìand you will be no normal kind of whore. I mean for Brimley Plantation to be the place where rich Yankees and Union officers use women not as women, but as horses, as thoroughbred horses, the sort of breeding that the South has been famous for. And I also mean for you to be the first filly in the stables now that the rest of the livestock has been sold.î

Marybeth Brimley, debutante of the most genteel of plantation families of the region, sat back in her chair stunned. Her spread fingers covered her mouth in shocked silence, and for the moment she forgot to cry.

The Colonel sat back in his chair, crossed his legs and studied his fingernails in the candlelight. ìMiss Brimley, I do believe you see my point. You really have no other option, unless, of course, you should decide to take your own life to defend your honor. That would beÖunfortunate. Honor has gone the way of the Old South and so havenít your fine Victorian morals.î

He hesitated for a moment, uncrossed his legs and stared at her, deep, malevolent eyes accessing her in the flickering light, undressing her, measuring her suitability for a life of whorish depravity as a naked animal. ìYou have no time, Miss Brimley. You must decideÖnow. I will not make the offer to you again.î

Marybethís mind recoiled from the horror of his demands. Of all the possibilities that she could have imagined in her worst nightmares, giving her life over to whoring, and a strange, perverted sort of whoring at that, had never occurred to her. Everything that she had ever dreamed seemed to evaporate in the heat of his gaze boring into her mind, her soul. I am lost, she thought, I am so truly lost. Heís the Devil. He wants my soul. And I am going to lose it, God help me.

She swallowed deep, trying to get some kind of moisture in her mouth, trying to work words out of her constricted throat. ìYouÖoh, God help meÖyou would do this awful thing? Itís not enough that the damn blue legs have destroyed us, my family, my home,î she whispered. ìYou would turn me into aÖwhÖwhore?î

ìShut up with your false piety. I won't turn you into a whore. You already are.î

Tears rolled silently down her cheeks as she sat as prim as she could maintain. The chair scraped as Colonel Murphy stood up to leave.

ìWaitÖplease.î

ìYes?î

ìWhat assurance do I have that you will keep your word?î

ìAnd what assurance do I have that you will perform as required? Only by what we say, Miss Brimley. I will take my leave.î

Marybeth decided. God forgive her, but yes, these were desperate times. And she needed to eatÖto survive. And she decided she didnít want to die.

ìI will do it.î

The Colonel turned on his heel and towered over her. ìA very wise decision, Miss Brimley. Sign right here, and I will deal with the register and your list of debtors. And then you will come with meÖtonight.î

Marybeth looked up in surprise from her signature. ìT..toÖtonight? But I thoughtÖmaybeÖ I donít knowÖî

The Colonel took the papers and folded them neatly into a breast pocket. Without any warning he reached across the table and grabbed Marybeth by the hair, his fingers tangling, and pulled her out of the chair. Her hands flew up in protest, trying to pry his fingers away, screaming at him to stop. He dragged her to her feet and slapped her face. She blinked, shocked at his sudden assertion of ownership of Brimley PlantationÖand her.

ìYou will shut up, whore. I need no longer treat you like Miss Brimley. I will treat you as I like. And you will learn a whoreís manners if I have to beat it into you, which sounds to me like a very attractive idea.î

The Colonel reached over to blow out the candle, ignoring Marybethís hands waving helplessly in the air, trying so hard not to pull at his wrist. In the dark he dragged her from the kitchen door, across the dew-slicked grass in her bare feet. She slipped. He pulled her back to her feet by her hair. He mounted his horse and pulled her up to lay over his saddle. The horse kicked up gravel as they sped off into the night.

ìTake her from the stall and harness her to a sulky. Iíve decided on a late evening ride along the river. And make sure youíve plugged her ass. I prefer to see her stepping high tonight.î

ìBut of course, sir. Shall I light a lantern for the sulky,î the deferential black girl said, her eyes downcast before the plantation master.

ìAnd how do you expect me to see her step high, bitch? The moon is but a quarter full. Perhaps for such a stupid question I should harness you both as a team.î

She kept silent.

The Colonel spun about and strode out of the barn to smoke. The stable worker sighed with relief. She had no fond wish to be harnessed for an evening jaunt with Colonel Murphy; his buggy whip would find her ass dark or no. ìCome on, darling,î she coaxed, ìyou need to pull the sulky for the Master yet tonight.î

Marybeth groaned. Her thighs ached with the dayís exertion, and she had looked forward to a rubdown, a blanket and sleep in the straw. Not yet, not tonight. She acted skittish as she was backed between the traces until the stable hand slapped her ass and demanded that she stop it.

The buggy whip flicked across her bare left flank as she trotted out the barn door. She jumped and picked up the pace. The Colonel was well known for his accuracy even in the dark. Around the circular drive in front of the Brimley mansion she trotted, not really seeing her former glory with the blinders that she wore. Former gloryÖshe barely thought of it anymore, not with her days full with training and then working. And the fucking.

Yes, the fuckingÖthat is what she thought of as she trotted down the long driveway past hedges of dogwood and wisteria. It might have been the fragrant odors loose on the night air. But the fuckingÖshe not only thought of the fuckingÖover and over until her nipples were permanently aroused and she smelled like a mare in heatÖshe lusted for it, her Victorian morals now a dim memory.

Yankee soldiers and carpetbaggers, the same who funneled money into the pockets of Colonel Murphy, they were fascinated with the likes of a southern belle transformed into whore and horse. She had been at the hands of a stud for hours until she could no longer distinguish one cock from another, her juices and semen running down the inside of her thighs. She suspected that they were telling each other about the whore at Brimley PlantationÖthe one who was the pony, who would scream and whinny when she orgasmed, haltered and tethered to the latch of her stable and bent over, her ass jutting back, pushing against a cock.

It hadnít been long before other girls, both white and black showed up, victims of the Colonelís blackmail or destitute. Some had been destined to be common whores, the sort who would lift their skirts for the yankee greenback, not that they would see any of it. And others yet had been destined for training as ponies, the ìstable fucksî as they were sometimes known.

The dreadful buggy whip flicked across her rump again. ìGidíup, bitch!î

Marybeth started to run, her sides heaving and foam flecking her chin under the bit gag. It wouldnít be long before the Colonel would have to bring her to a walk, but for the moment she ran with grace, the sort of grace that almost nobody in her previous protected life would have imagined. Past the fields that had once been hers she ran, her hair flying out behind her, until on command she did slow down to walk.

The lantern cast a bit of yellow light which didnít penetrate the woods very far, woods barely dappled by the quarter moon. He pulled at the reins, and she stopped. She tossed her head, anxious to get back to stable, a drinkÖperhaps to be fucked before she was rubbed down. She glanced up at the sliver of moon. For the rest of her life she would remember this moon as the ìslutís moon.î

She barely realized when he unhooked her from the traces and tethered her to the rear of the sulky. His sizable cock slid easily into her from behind; the sweat and slick juices left no doubt. She waited patiently as she was fucked, content that now and not before she had found her place.