|The Ponygirl Whisperer|
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|© Copyright 2017 - Sogo - Used by permission - Do not use without the author's permission.|
|Storycodes: FFFF; M+/f+; coeds; college; research; ponygirls; ranch; training; strip; harness; bitgag; bdsm; crop; cond; cart; sulky; enslave; sold; tricked; cons/reluct; X||
|The Ponygirl Whisperer Sogo FFFF; M+/f+; coeds; college; research; ponygirls; ranch; training; strip; harness; bitgag; bdsm; crop; cond; cart; sulky; enslave; sold; tricked; cons/reluct; X|
"Even though ponygirls have been around for decades, nobody has noticed that they have developed their own secret non-verbal language of communication over the years, and that is why I have chosen you as my research assistants for this ground-breaking study."
The three female grad students--blonde Stacee, raven-haired Mirabelle, and redheaded Bronwyn-- turned from the female professor to the two dozen ponygirls mingling in the corral before them as they rounded the stable. This was their first real look at the world of female human equines, and their reactions vacillated from fascination to disgust at the naked and leather-tacked women who pranced around in their enclosure.
Mirabelle turned to Professor Emily Van Iga. "But why doesn't somebody just ask them?"
"Three reasons. One, we want to make sure we're getting the truth. Two, ponygirls are forbidden to talk beyond imitating horse sounds. And three, some of them have had their vocal cords cut, so that they are unable to speak."
At this last statement, the three coeds gasped and involuntarily brought their hands protectively to their throats. The professor ignored them and continued on.
"Now, if you'll follow me, we'll go to the stable and get started."
The young women followed their mentor toward the building, all the while glancing back at their less-fortunate sisters penned up inside the wooden enclosure.
In the stable, they were met by several muscular men, who greeted Van Iga warmly. The professor addressed her apprehensive students, who huddled together protectively.
"These men will be helping us with our research, which will be intensive and hands-on. Just remember that if you back out now, you forfeit all your tuition money for this term."
She stood there as one of the men took a bridle from a hook on the wall and carefully fitted it over her head, taking care as he adjusted the straps and bit so that it was comfortable yet secure. The grad students began to grow nervous.
Before they could protest or back out, each was flanked by two men, who fitted her with her own bridle. There were muted sounds of protest as the networks of leather straps closed in around their heads and the rubber bits were pushed between their teeth. Arms jerked up protectively before stopping and hovering uncertainly in the air. The women were then led to the end of the room, where ceiling straps were clipped to the top D-rings of their bridles and their hands were bound behind them.
The professor gave them a thumbs-up to reassure them, then closed her eyes. She was then stripped of all her clothing before she was harnessed and booted.
The three coeds exchanged glances. They had no idea that their research was going to be this "hands on". Still, there was nothing they could do except squirm and hyper-ventilate as they, too, were stripped and harnessed. Events had progressed so quickly that it was impossible to back out now. They stood there, feeling vulnerable and scared.
A lead was clipped to the professor's bit rings, and she was led toward the door, high-stepping in her pony boots. The students were pulled along behind by their own leads, and they half-heartedly pranced like their teacher in their awkward boots.
Outside, the man leading the professor turned to the three girls. "In order to be fully accepted by the other ponygirls, you have to be trained just like them, so that you act like them. Then they know they can trust you."
They were led into a small corral with a training carousel. One by one, the four women were hooked up to the overhead arms. The students strained to get a look at each other, and were rewarded with mild smacks on their butts with riding crops.
"Eyes forward! Now keep your backs straight and bring your knees up to waist level with each step."
The carousel was started, and the new ponygirls marched around in circles. After a few minutes, the speed was increased to a trot, then a canter, and finally a gallop. The girls went along gamely with the humiliating routine, painfully aware of their bare bouncing breasts, wondering how much more degradation they would have to endure to accomplish their goal. They had begun to wish they had done a little more research before deciding on their field of study, especially after they started getting cracks on the ass from the riding crops for not lifting their legs high enough, or for not keeping their posture erect, or for being distracted by things going on around them.
After an hour of training, the exhausted girls were tied to individual hitching posts to rest and eat their lunch of water and granola from feedbags. They glanced at each other disconsolately. This is what they went to college and graduate school for?
For the rest of that day, they were trained in dressage, the trainer's long bullwhip a constant presence and a reminder to pay attention and not screw up. The man employed it expertly, snapping the leather end just inches from a sweating ponygirl's feet, ass, or face, the air cracking like a sharp clap of thunder. The coeds were so terrified that they didn't realize how tired they were until training ended for the day.
They were taken into the stable, where they were allowed to relieve themselves in bidets as the trainers stood nearby, then washed down and put in stalls before being fed dinner. They noted with distress that they were allowed to do nothing for themselves or by themselves. Privacy did not exist in the ponygirl's world.
Their stalls were side by side, so they couldn't even see each other. Each girl surveyed her stall-- the bare wooden walls where their restraints were hung, the concrete floor that rang with the sounds of metal-shod pony boots, the waist-high chain-link gate at the front and the high open ceiling with walkways which eliminated all sense of privacy, and the bare cot that served as a bed.
There was little time to ruminate on their dire surroundings, as they were soon put to bed. They wondered if it was really necessary to shackle one ankle to a floor chain, as they WERE here voluntarily. And their bridles and bit were replaced with leather hoods, effectively cutting them off from the outside world. Tiny padlocks at the napes of their necks ensured that the hoods could not be removed, either.
Despite their fears, they slept soundly due to the rigorous training exercises they had endured. Before they knew it, they were being roused from their beds for another day of pony drills.
They were harnessed and bridled and given breakfast. Once more, they went through the same training regimen as the day before. Boredom and fatigue set in quickly, and the riding crops had to be used more frequently. Bronwyn, who couldn't hold it in any longer, peed as she stood at her hitching post during one of the breaks. She was mortified, especially since she couldn't wipe herself clean, and she was afraid she would be punished, but the trainers just ignored her. When the other two saw this, they too relieved themselves, if somewhat discreetly.
The rest of the week continued in the same manner. In the morning, it was trot, canter, gallop; in the afternoon, complex dressage maneuvers. As time went on, they became less and less self-conscious about their nudity, about their bouncing titties and exposed cunts, about their enforced bondage and discipline.
By the end of the week, they had been reduced from thinking women to trained animals. They were too tired to do anything but respond to their trainers' commands or pray for water and rest. Their academic mission slowly slipped from their minds.
For the second week, their carousel training was slowly replaced with laps around an oval track, using the various gaits they had been schooled in. Dressage was replaced with cart training, which entailed more restraints and humiliating rules. Mirabelle broke down in tears one afternoon, and was given a shot of something in the arm, after which she was eager to go again twenty minutes later.
For the third week, they each had to pull a cart and its passenger along a trail in the woods for several miles every day. At first, they were allowed to rest frequently, but by the end of the week, they had to run the entire course non-stop. This meant that they were soaked with sweat by the time they finished, and that their asses were striped with red welts.
For the fourth week, they were transported in a horse trailer to a country club, where they were used to replace the golf carts to carry the wealthy members around the 18-hole course, their naked bodies harnessed to sulky carts. They were now out in public among total strangers. But by this time, they no longer cared that people saw them as naked beasts of burden, and did their job without protest, even standing passively under the hot summer sun as the golfers teed off, sweat dripping off their breasts and glistening their pubic hair as they caught their breaths. They remained mute, aware of their parched mouths as the golfers drank bottle after bottle of beer or water. They were given short breaks throughout the day, during which they were tethered to the front porch rails of the country club and fed bottles of water and hors-d’oeuvres by the caddies. The girls realized they were no longer intelligent grad students, but submissive unthinking servants catering to the whims of their rich and snobbish masters.
After a month, the trainers decided they had been sufficiently broken in, so one day the three women were taken to a special room in the stable, where they were tied down in a bent-over position. They were so tired from their month-long ordeal that they did not react as their hair was chopped off and heads shaved into manes. An ice-cold brand was brought out, and they were freeze-branded on their left ass cheeks. They barely reacted to that, too.
The owner of the pony farm came in and looked over his three new charges. He smiled approvingly at the trio of women standing there. None of them protested or even showed much emotion as he fondled their breasts or probed their cunts with his fingers.
"They're ready?" he asked the trainers.
The men nodded.
The next day, the new owners of the fully-trained coeds arrived and took them away, each to a different destination, never to be free again. The women were docile as they were led into the trailers and strapped in, even though it was certain at this point that they knew they had been tricked, and that a bleak future lay in store for them. At this point, all they could muster were a few tears over their depressing fate. Soon, their former lives and identities would be just a dim memory.
When the final trailer had disappeared down the road, the owner visited the professor in her stall. He patted her head as she nuzzled his chest affectionately.
"Good girl," he cooed. "We got a good price for those three new ones. You deserve a reward for such good work."
He took out a sugar cube and pressed it into her mouth. She sucked on it eagerly, though the thick bit made it difficult.
The owner held up two more. "One for each girl."
The professor pawed the ground excitedly, the metal shoe of her pony boot scraping against the concrete floor. The cubes dissolved quickly in her drooling mouth.
"Easy, girl. Easy. You've got another college to go to tomorrow for another 'recruitment' effort. You do well with this one, and we'll bring in some studly ponyboys to fuck you raw. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
The woman's eyes flew open as he spoke. She began to hyperventilate, her nostrils flaring as her nipples swelled and stiffened in anticipation.
The owner laughed. She was such a whore. He pinched a nipple between thumb and forefinger and tugged with short, sharp movements for a few moments, bringing her to a quick, screaming orgasm. As she stood there panting breathlessly through her bit, he kissed her on the forehead.
"That's my girl."
Copyright 2017 by Sogo.
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