MERE PAPERWORK

by Sogo

- with art by YPVS.
- do not use without the author's and artist's permissions.


Susan Johnson had just come back from her lunch break when Bob, the head manager of Teltec Industries, approached her.

"Um, Sue, there are some people in your office--"

"Oh, my clients from DataMax are here already? And somebody let them in my office? Shit."

Bob started to say something else, but she hurried past and barged into her office.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, gentle--"

She stopped, not recognizing the three men standing there. They certainly weren't from DataMax.

"May I help you gentlemen?"

The man nearest her held out his hand. "Susan Johnson? I'm Phil Benton. We're from FemFarm, Incorporated. I'm afraid your number has been called." The female executive had thought that she was past the age for the lottery, but the rules for drafting women into ponygirl service were more complicated than the tax code.

"My number? What--?" The impact of what they were saying was beginning to dawn on her. "No. NO."

"I'm afraid so. You're going to be a ponygirl for the next five years."

"You can't be serious. There must be some mistake."

"I'm afraid not. Now if you will kindly remove your outer clothing so we can get started . . ."

"Oh, God. No!" Susan could feel tears welling up in her eyes.

"If you need a sedative--"

"No, no. I'll be fine." She waved the men away and began to take off her suit jacket, her movements mechanical as her mind tried to shut out the horrible reality. Susan knew as well as anyone that women were taken away on the spur of the moment to prevent resistance or escape. Still, it did not make things any easier. She was well on her way to building a successful career, and now this would derail everything she had worked for for the past eight years.

One of the other men took the garment gently from her and hung it over his arm.

The female executive tugged her blouse out of her skirt and began opening buttons as she gulped back the tears. Of all the rotten luck. A promising career suddenly cut short by a cruel twist of fate.

"Why now?" she asked.

Phil Benton shrugged. "That's just the way the lottery works."

She took off her blouse, aware that three pairs of male eyes were feasting on the well-filled C cups of her violet lace-cup underwire bra. Her hands reached around and unzipped her skirt, dreading every moment as she stepped out of it and her half-slip and handed them over. Now they all knew that she wore a matching violet waist cincher and French-cut bikini panties, hardly executive attire for the upwardly-mobile no-nonsense businesswoman. At least there was nothing prurient about her black stockings.

They put the ankle hobbles on her first, probably afraid that she was going to bolt. She wanted to laugh. As if she was going to go racing through an entire office building and through the streets in her heels and sexy undies. That option, however, suddenly seemed more attractive as they buckled the straps and she felt the soft leather grip her ankles.

"Do we have to do this here?"

The leader nodded. "I'm afraid so. We don't want any last-minute bids for freedom."

The harness came next, the tightening straps around her body and wrists giving Susan claustrophobia. But the bridle was the worst, the leather straps imprisoning her head and crushing her short blonde hair, and the rubber bit wedged deep in her mouth, locking her jaws into an open position. Absurdly, she wondered if it would smear her lipstick.

"Okay, we're all set. Let's go. Nice and easy, now."

A leash was clipped to a ring on the chin strap of her bridle, and she was led out as if she were a newly-captured wild stallion.

News of the visitors' purpose had spread throughout the floor like a flash flood, and Susan was greeted with the sight of dozens of eyes taking in her humiliation: co-workers, numerous underlings, and countless others from other offices and companies were all there to watch. Even the pizza delivery guy was there, the food in his hands temporarily forgotten.

Enjoying the show? she thought bitterly. She glared back at them, knowing there was nothing she could do to prevent them from being there now that she had suddenly gone from executive to ponygirl, and knowing that she was at a distinct disadvantage attired only in her lacy underthings.

Okay, so I like fine lingerie. Is that a crime? At least I still have a killer body.

She was taken out into the hallway and to the elevator. Oh, God, she thought, could things get any more humiliating?

The elevator doors opened, and the half-dozen passengers came face-to-face with the scantily-clad, harnessed and bridled executive. One woman gave an involuntary gasp, causing the men to chuckle.

Two men stepped out-- her clients from DataMax. After giving her a brief once-over, they addressed her while trying to suppress their smiles.

"Ms Johnson?"

She nodded as best she could, trying to look them in the face even as she felt her face burn with embarrassment.

"I'm assuming this means the deal is off."

Susan tried to mumble an apology, but one of her captors broke in: "I'm sure the company has made arrangements to have you meet with someone else."

The clients from DataMax thanked him and continued on. Susan felt belittled. Of course they would have made other arrangements-- she was expendable. It was an open secret that all women below a certain age could be replaced at a second's notice if her lottery number came up.

The elevator had been held for them. She was led into it, keenly aware of her half-naked and helpless state as men in suits crowded around her. A hand groped her ass, and she spun around in anger, only to be stopped short by a jerk on her leash, wrenching her neck muscles painfully. A small cry escaped her lips.

"That's the way to keep them in line," said one of the businessmen. The others laughed, and the hand returned to her ass, squeezing a butt cheek through her thin panties. The female executive tried to contain her anger-- they would NEVER have done this under normal circumstances.

There were two other women, who tried to remain as inconspicuous as possible, but then the men began to make comments about their imagined abilities as ponygirls, nearly bringing them to tears.

They reached the lobby, and Susan felt the hand give a final squeeze before it left her butt. The doors opened, and her stomach did flipflops as they stepped out and passed through the crowds. Stan, the newsstand man, smiled at her, and Bert, the security guard, tried not to. Everyone else just stared.

Their time in the street was mercifully brief as she was loaded onto a horse trailer and strapped in, the leather restraints tightened until she could move barely an inch in any direction. A muzzle, blinders, and earplugs shut her off from the outside world, and they began their journey. Susan still couldn't help thinking that this was all a mistake. Why her, why now? She wasn't THAT athletic, she was already in the work force, and she had already been rejected once. Had there been a change in the rules somewhere along the line? If so, no one had bothered to inform her, and there was no way she could check things out now.

A few hours later, they reached the ponygirl farm, and a defeated Susan was led to her stall, her new home for the next five years, all eight-by-ten feet of it. Bare wooden walls and iron bars. Her new wardrobe would consist only of plain white open-crotch panty girdles and open-cupped sports bras-- no more designer clothes or shopping sprees for newly-bridled fillies like herself. Her meals would be nothing more than oats and nuts and dried fruit instead of French cuisine, morning lattes, and imported chocolates. Her days would be an unending regimen of exercise and harsh training, replacing long days sitting in a comfortable executive chair and overseeing the work of dozens of people. There would be no friends, no privacy, no freedom. She was property-- no ifs, ands, or buts about it.


Her only hope lay in the fact that she would be free in five years.


----------

It was two months later at FemFarm headquarters when Joe from Personnel approached Mark from Acquisitions.

"Mark, about this Susan Johnson-- something just doesn't seem right."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, the physical stats are all wrong. Here, it says that she's 21, five-foot-six, 118 pounds, with brunette hair and green eyes, but here on her Arrival form, it says that she's 29, five-foot-eight, 140 pounds, with blonde hair and blue eyes."

"People change all the time, especially women, and sometimes they lie about their age or weight."

"Yeah, but look at this. Here, it says that she lives in an apartment at the Tanner Complex, but on the Arrival form, it says that she has a house on Treehaven Drive."

"So? She moved."

"But look here: secretary on one form, middle manager on another."

"She's on the fast track. Was, anyway."

"Check the directory. See what you get."

Mark called up the city directory on his computer and typed in Susan Johnson. There were five in the city, including one at the Tanner Complex and one on Treehaven Drive. Both men got a sinking feeling in their gut.

"If I'm not mistaken," said Joe, "we got the wrong woman."

"Oops. How did that happen?"

"She was taken at work, right?"

"Yes."

"Unfortunately for Miss Middle Management, they both work at the same building."

"Holy shit."

"Exactly."

"So what are we going to do?"

"Well, we can't release her. She'll sue us into bankruptcy. Our only option is to change the data on her file, cover our butts."

Mark was already calling up the file. Within ten minutes, they had erased all trace of the mistaken acquisition, making it look as if she was the intended target all along. As a further precaution, they also changed her contract from five years to lifetime, ensuring that she could never have a chance to correct the injustice.

Joe slapped Mark on the back. "Good man. Now let's get the other one. She's been free long enough."


----------

Susan Johnson didn't think about freedom much anymore, or her former executive position, which now seemed like a distant dream. It had been eleven years since she had been drafted into slavery, and any hopes of resuming her former life were long gone. She worked for a junk dealer now, pulling a cart up and down streets as he picked through the garbage in front of people's homes. Federal law required that public ponies be clothed, so she wore whatever filthy undergarments he was able to salvage from the trash, whether they fit well or not. Right now, she wore a pair of frayed black bikini panties that were two sizes too tight and a soiled white nursing bra that, at 40D, was too big for her 36C chest. Her new owner had a temper, which meant that he often whipped her in public (of course, no one intervened, as ponygirls were property), leaving her ass striped with thin white scars over the years. As if that wasn't humiliating enough, at mealtimes he would open her bra cups and pump her with a breast pump that he had found, drinking her milk as she stood in the street sweating and leaking all over the place. Her well-used breasts now hung slackly like an old woman's. She wondered what kind of retirement, if any, she would live to enjoy.

Copyright 2006 by Sogo.