|Wrong Place, Wrong Time|
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|© Copyright 2017 - Sogo - Used by permission. Do not use without the author's permission.|
|Storycodes: M+/f; lost; farm; capture; filmset; strip; bond; harness; hobbles; reins; training; ponygirl; video; cart; collar; shock; hood; stall; hum; bitgag; bridle; boots; tattoo; brand; toys; sold; cons/nc; X||
|Wrong Place, Wrong Time Sogo M+/f; lost; farm; capture; filmset; strip; bond; harness; hobbles; reins; training; ponygirl; video; cart; collar; shock; hood; stall; hum; bitgag; bridle; boots; tattoo; brand; toys; sold; cons/nc; X|
"Here she is," said the exasperated director, peering out the stable door. He glanced at his watch as a tall, dark-haired woman stepped out of her car. "She's almost two hours late, the stupid bitch. And I wanted her to wear a dress or skirt, NOT fucking JEANS!"
The film crew jumped up and readied the lights and video cameras. They were going to have to work fast if they were going to get enough footage for a feature-length film.
The one cameraman filmed through a dusty window as the woman nervously approached the deserted-looking farm, her eyes searching for any signs of human life.
"Hello? Is anybody here? I need to get to the state park."
That was the cue for two of the male actors. They stepped out of the stable and headed for the woman.
"Hi. Can we help you?"
"Yes. I seem to have taken a wrong turn somewhere. I need to get to the state park. I know it's around here somewhere."
The one man flexed his muscular shirtless torso as he stood near her and pointed back to where she came. "What you need to do is, you go back up this road…"
The woman, distracted by his washboard abs and his directions, didn't notice the other man step around behind her. She had barely a second's warning before one hand clamped over her mouth and one arm pinned her arms to her waist. Before she could react, the first man stooped down and grabbed her lower legs, sweeping her off her feet. They had carried her halfway to the stable before she began screaming and struggling.
She had no chance against her well-built abductors. Once inside the stable, they tore open her blouse and pulled down her jeans as she thrashed about desperately. With her ankles and wrists tangled up in her clothing, they tugged a bridle over her head and forced the rubber bit into her mouth. Her terror reached a fever pitch as they ripped her bra and panties off, leaving her fully exposed.
It took three men to hold her down while they put the harness on her and cinched the straps tight.
"Okay, let's break 'er in."
Leather ankle hobbles with a six-inch chain prevented her from kicking or attempting to run away. They hauled the screeching, twisting woman to her to her feet and almost dragged her out to the corral by her reins. The naked woman fought anyway, her hair and large breasts swinging madly as she strained against the leather tack that held her prisoner.
It took them nearly two minutes to clip her reins to the overhead bar of the training carousel. She struggled like a fish on a hook, and when they removed the hobbles, she kicked out at the men, nearly losing her balance.
They turned on the carousel. The captive women stumbled as the reins jerked her forward, her feet scrambling to keep up as the overhead bar swung around faster and faster. Within thirty seconds, she was jogging to keep up, a slave to this powerful machine.
A riding crop slashed across her soft white ass. "GET THOSE KNEES UP! HIGHER! HIGHER!"
The director smiled as the cameras rolled. He would make this irresponsible bitch pay for making them wait. She was a porn actress who had been fully appraised of the nature of this movie, so he felt no guilt about what he was doing. In fact, the intensity of her performance was making up for her tardiness. That alone would make it a big hit with their intended customers, who liked their entertainment as extreme as possible.
They ran her for nearly a half-hour, until she was exhausted and sobbing, the sweat and tears dripping down her face and splashing on her full, quivering tits.
"Good, good," said the director. "Let's take a short break for lunch. Mike, give our little filly here some Gatorade and bring her in out of the sun. We don't want her passing out in the middle of the shoot."
He stepped back into the stable and pulled out his cell phone, which had been vibrating on and off for the past fifteen minutes.
"I'm really really sorry, but I woke up late and my car wouldn't start this morning and I couldn't find my cell phone and then I got into an accident trying to get here, so could we schedule this thing for tomorrow? I am so so SO sorry!"
"Who IS this?"
"Meghan, the girl who was supposed to do the ponygirl shoot today. Why? Is something wrong?"
"Uhhhh-- can I get back to you?"
The director flipped his cell phone shut and stood there in shock. If the girl who was here wasn't the actress they contracted for, then who . . . ?
"Frank," he called. A cameraman looked in his direction. "Come with me for a moment."
The two men went out to the car, where they retrieved the woman's purse. Her driver's license and credit cards identified her as Alexa O'Malley. Further digging uncovered the fact that she was an award-winning nature photographer. The trunk was filled with cameras and photographic equipment.
"Oh, shit. I think we just fucked up. Big time."
"Can't we just apologize? Explain the situation to her?" offered Frank.
"I'm afraid that's out of the question. We've just kidnapped and assaulted a woman and captured it all on tape. We'll be lucky if we get out of this with just a massive lawsuit and five-to-ten each."
Frank was visibly shaken. "So what do we do?"
The director looked back toward the stable. "There's only one thing we can do."
They returned to the corral, keeping their secret between them. The hapless woman was made to perform more humiliating ponygirl training. After another break, she was then hitched to a cart and forced to carry her rider around the farm. By this time, she was too exhausted to put up any resistance, and did whatever they instructed her to do.
As the sun set, she was taken back to the stable, where she was allowed to pee, then washed down before being taken to a stall and fed raw fruits and vegetables. A canine shock collar was put around her neck to prevent her from speaking; it only took two jolts to convince her to keep her mouth shut. She had turned her head in shame as she emptied her bladder, furious that they were taping even that, but she was relieved that the washing of her body was done impersonally. She nibbled at her food, hungry but having little desire to eat.
In the dim overhead light, she was hooded and hobbled and locked into a stall. As her naked body squirmed feebly in the pile of straw, the director said, "That's it for today, guys."
"For today?" said one of the cameramen. "There's more?"
"Yeah. I just got a call from the company. They want at least a couple videos out of this thing, so if you want, we can keep going for the next week."
Only two of the crew had prior commitments, so he had enough to continue. They packed up their equipment and left. Frank stayed, and he and the director went into the house to discuss their next course of action. But first he called Meghan and told her the shoot was cancelled.
* * *
Alexa lay on the pile of dry, scratchy straw, not caring that it irritated her skin. As tired as she was, her mind was full of questions. What had she stumbled into, and why had they abused her so cruelly? Why were they filming it? Were they lying in wait for her? No-- there was no way they could have known she would get lost and be stopping at that particular farm to ask for directions. The only explanation was that they were filming some kind of fetish video and had somehow mistaken her for a porn actress. But even that was a bit far-fetched. How could they make such a stupid mistake? And where was the real actress? Maybe they had altered the road signs to make sure that she would get lost and stop here. After all, she was an attractive and well-known photographer. Had they been stalking her? There were so many questions that had no answers.
All she knew was that she had to get out of there. Unfortunately, she was trussed up in bondage gear, and all her senses except for touch and smell were blocked by the tight leather bondage hood that encased her head. Still, she had to make the effort.
Struggling to a sitting position, she braced her back against the wall and pushed herself up with her feet. Even with the hobbles and her sore muscles, she had little difficulty standing and shuffling around.
Alexa knew she was in a bare horse stall, so she wasted no time in exploring her surroundings. She headed straight for the front gate. To her dismay, though, she found that it would not open, and fumbling around with her fingers revealed the sturdy lock which kept her prisoner.
Her heart sank, even though she knew she should have expected something like that. After what they had done to her, they were not going to be careless and let her escape that easy. Perhaps her restraints--?
She slid down to her knees and leaned back so that her hands could reach her ankle hobbles. It only took a few seconds for her to feel the tiny locks that prevented her from unbuckling the straps. She cursed the bondage company that made such restraints so sturdy and effective.
Alexa collapsed against the wall in despair. She was tired and sore, and yet she knew she had to escape because they would keep her prisoner, and they would keep on abusing and exploiting her. She wished now she had told someone where she was going, but she was such an independent, self-reliant woman that she felt she could take care of herself. And now she was paying the price.
* * *
"There's no way we can ever let her free. She'll ruin us all."
The director had googled Alexa O'Malley and had seen her website and Facebook page, the shows she had done, the awards she had won.
Frank finished off his beer. "So what do we do?"
"She's a photographer, right? So who's to say that she doesn't discover her inner submissive self and document it for a new book?"
"Isn't that pretty risky?"
"You got a better idea? I'm not a murderer. Besides, who knows, maybe she'll come to enjoy it."
"And if she doesn't?"
"What choice does she have? If worse comes to worse, we can always use some brainwashing techniques on her, make her come to accept her new way of life."
Frank shook his head, still skeptical. "I hope you're right."
* * *
They found Alexa propped up in the corner of the stall wall and the front gate, groggy from lack of sleep. When they opened the gate, she started and began to panic, at first not realizing what was going on. She put up a token resistance when they took her arms and pulled her to her feet. They removed the leather hood, and she flinched as the light hit her eyes.
Because she still wore the shock collar, she mouthed the words, "Please! Please! Just let me go!", but they ignored her.
"We're going to let you pee, and then give you some breakfast. You've got a long day ahead of you."
The photographer was glum as she was plopped down on the toilet, glaring at the two men who stood above her as her pee hissed into the bowl.
They fed her some nutrition and granola bars, washed down with a sports drink, then put the bridle back on. Her eyes radiated pure hate as the rubber bit was wedged into her mouth and the straps were tightened about her head. Reins were clipped to her bit rings and she was led outside.
It was a beautiful summer morning. The air was fresh and clean, and birds chirped and flew through the sky, and a warm wind sighed through the trees and grass. The captive girl's mind automatically framed shots and looked for the best vantage points for taking pictures, but then she was brought down to earth as the warm sun hit her bare skin and her arms squirmed against her thick restraints, her fingers eager to grasp one of her beloved cameras.
She was hitched to a post near the corral, the reins tied to the wood rail at chest level. The woman stared down at the knot, only inches from her imprisoned hands, yet as inaccessible as the farthest star. Once again, she ruminated on how distressingly easy it was to physically restrain a person.
A clicking sound snapped her out of her funk, and she spun her head around. To her shock, she saw that they were using one of her own cameras, taking pictures of her as she stood there naked and degraded. It was the most infuriating, insulting thing they could have done, and Alexa exploded, screaming obscenities at them.
Unfortunately, she still wore the shock collar. A jolt of electricity exploded in her brain, and she screamed. This triggered another jolt, another scream, another jolt, another scream--
It was only when the director was able to dig the remote out of his pocket and thumb the OFF button that the vicious cycle was ended. The stunned woman collapsed onto the rail, gasping as she tried to gain control of her senses.
"Oh, shit! I am so sorry! I probably should've taken that thing off."
Alexa was angry. He was sorry?!? After they had kidnapped her, ripped her clothes off, held her prisoner in bondage, and made her perform humiliating things naked for hours while they filmed it? He was now saying he was sorry? With a howl of rage, she slammed her body into his and attempted to kick his crotch, but the reins held her back.
The director looked apologetic. "You have to understand. We thought you were someone else. We were waiting for an actress so we could shoot our adult feature. She was delayed, and when you showed up, we thought you were her. Now, after all the things we've done to you, we can't just let you go. We know you'll take legal action against us. You're not going to just let this thing drop, right?"
The photographer had to admit that he was right. If what he said was true, then he had made an honest mistake. And her outraged reaction ensured that he couldn't take any chances in letting her free. In a way, she had sealed her own fate.
"The way I see it, there's only one option-- you cooperate with us. It's not like you have any choice, anyway. Fighting us will only result in more pain and punishment for you."
And not fighting--? She didn't like that option, either. She didn't care for being trained and used like an animal, not to mention having it all documented. She wished she could reason with him, even though she knew it would probably do no good. It was best to play along-- for now. She knew an opportunity to escape would occur eventually. She just didn't know when.
They had retrieved some sandals and a sports bra from her luggage, and she let them put them on her. It was a welcome relief, however minimal. But then the rest of the film crew arrived, and she knew that her debasement was only beginning.
They put her through hours of grueling, mind-numbing training, captured on roll after roll of film and hours of video. Then they had her pull a cart through a trail in the woods, getting every bit of it in loving detail. They taped and photographed her when she ate, when she rested, when she relieved herself, when she was washed down, and when she slept.
The next few days, they let her rest, which she was grateful for. But as she paced her cell, she fumed. Have you got enough material for your customers to jerk off to? she thought. How much are you going to make off of your brutal exploitation of an intelligent, talented woman? No matter how famous she got or how ground-breaking her work was, this was going to follow her for the rest of her life.
They brought her her favorite foods and played her favorite music, no doubt having read her Facebook page, and they brought her new sports bras, having evidently read the sizing tags on the ones she brought with her. She knew she should have appreciated the gestures, but she was aware that they were just attempting to appease her. The sports bras were especially troubling, as that meant that they intended to keep her for awhile. The fact that she wasn't killed, or raped, or sold into slavery was also of little consolation. She had to keep up hope. She had to find a way out.
* * *
"How are the pictures, Frank?"
"Super. I think we got enough for a book. What should we call it?"
"She's a nature photographer, so something to do with nature. How about 'Wilderness Filly'?"
"Sounds good to me. We'll need somebody to write an introduction, explain why she decided to become a ponygirl."
"Don't worry about that. I can get somebody from the company to write a few paragraphs. That's all we'll need."
* * *
They resumed her training, if a bit half-heartedly, mainly taking her out for extended runs through the woods after her ponyboots arrived. Alexa was frustrated to see that there was no sign of civilization anywhere. Still, she would have attempted an escape if she hadn't been hitched to the cart with back straps and wrist chains. It was infuriating having to trudge down dirt roads and up small hills for half the day, transporting leering, smart-assed, beer-swilling assholes in comfort, then having to feel the occasional stinging swack of the riding crop just because they got bored. Each night, her feet hurt like hell from the high-heeled boots.
When the sanitary napkins she had brought had run out, they bought more, which were duct-taped to the crotch strap of her harness, the thick pad sticking out from both sides of the leather strip. In a perverse bit of ingenuity, they had even stuck one under the forehead strap of her bridle so that her sweat wouldn't sting her eyes.
She was treated like an adopted pet. Even though the taping was finished, the men always returned when they had some free time, sometimes for pony rides, but often to hand-feed her, train her, stroke her hair and talk gently to her. They weren't allowed to wash her down or dress her; only Frank and the director could do that. Alexa had mixed feelings about all of this. In any other context, she would have enjoyed the pampering; here, it was just another part of her soft prison.
The ponygirl cried the day they brought in some of her old bras, and they added a small bookcase with her stuffed animals and other mementos to her stall. It meant that they had gone to her apartment and cleaned it out, erasing one more part of her former existence. Her shoes, clothes, photos and photographic equipment, everything that defined her former life was gone, presumably sold or tossed away. Alexa O'Malley, award-winning nature photographer, was now just Honeycunt the Ponygirl. To add insult to injury, they had found all her sex toys, which they put on the top shelf of the bookcase-- dildos, vibrators, a vibrating egg, a butt plug, remote-control vibrating panties that an old boyfriend had bought her as a joke, and nipple suction cups. Though they just sat there unused, she knew they were going to be put into play eventually.
* * *
The two men redesigned Alexa's website, adding a brief section of her ponygirl photos, then shopped the book around to various publishers. It was finally bought for a modest sum by one that dealt with erotica. The two celebrated. The money didn't matter, only the fact that it legitimized the woman's new status.
Summer turned to fall, and Alexa was dressed in a spandex catsuit to keep out the chill when she was taken outside for exercise. Her stall was insulated, and a space heater and blankets were brought in. Since the two men were frequently working, a dominatrix was brought in to train her and keep an eye on her. One glance at the stern-looking woman, and the captive photographer knew there was no appealing to her for help.
Winter came, and Alexa was reminded of all the holidays and events she was missing-- Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's, her birthday. Hardly a day went by when she didn't think about what her life would have been like had she not gotten lost that spring morning.
The snow was deep, but she was still taken out and trained whenever possible, her breath billowing out in white clouds as she plowed through knee-high drifts. What especially bothered her was the loneliness and isolation-- she only saw several people at most, and she was always confined to her stall in the evenings, listening to the cold winter wind howl in the wilderness. They had given her her i-pod, and she could often lose herself in her music, but even that lost its allure after a while. It was around this time that they began adding vibrators and butt plugs to her training, often leaving them in until she was exhausted and her holes sore from the non-stop stimulation.
The two men continued taking pictures of her.
It was a relief when the spring finally arrived, and she could enjoy the sun and warm air again. And yet, it reminded her that she had been held prisoner for almost a year and no one had rescued her. Why? Had everyone forgotten her so easily? Just the thought that that could be so hurt more than anything.
* * *
WILDERNESS FILLY by Alexa O'Malley was scheduled to come out in early summer. When he had gotten the advance copies, the director took one of them out to the stall.
The ponygirl was eating her lunch out of a feedbag when he held it up in front of her.
"Congratulations! Your new book is out!"
The nature photographer almost went into shock when she saw the cover: a shot of the woodland trail with her in full pony gear pulling the cart. This couldn't be real, could it? All this time, she had thought that they were keeping her kidnapping and imprisonment a secret, but now here it was, a record of her humiliation for all the world to see. Could they really get away with it?
He flipped through the pages, showing her all the full-color images. Alexa noticed that there were virtually none from the first day, when her terror and outrage had been strongest.
"It should be a best-seller. We posted some pictures on your website a while back, and the advance buzz has been tremendous."
So images of her degradation were already all over the web. That explained why no one had come looking for her-- they just assumed she had chosen her new lifestyle. There was no chance anybody would save her now. Her family and friends would be too ashamed to even visit her. She realized tears were streaming down her cheeks. She was only thirty-four, and her life as she knew it was effectively ended.
Reviews were mixed, but the book was a big seller. Everywhere, the fetish world talked or wrote about this incredible new book. The director had fake responses written on Alexa's website expressing joy at the reception the book was given. The publisher asked for a sequel.
* * *
As Alexa feared, things got worse. They made her wear a butt plug ponytail, they shaved her head into a mane, and they branded her ass. She fought and cried, not caring that it added to the erotic realism of the whole enterprise. Her pony name-- Honeycunt-- was tattooed in big letters above her breasts while she was strapped to a table. They even used her sex toys on her. Strapped spread-legged in her stall, the ponygirl was unable to even move as her deluxe multi-speed vibrator buzzed and droned deep between her legs and her nipple suction cups made her nipples grow like Pinocchio's nose. She was brought to a screaming orgasm again and again until her heart felt like it was going to give out and she was too weak to even stand. And it was all captured on film.
The second book was rushed into print, and it too was a big hit. The public wanted more.
Alexa was put into a horse trailer each morning and taken to a public place, where she was photographed with the reactions of shocked onlookers. The ponygirl had no choice but to play along as she was left hitched to a tree near a trail in a public park and told to prance in place as joggers went by, forced to pull a sulky down suburban streets on a warm summer day when everyone was outside, or made to prance around onstage at a concert as a heavy metal band performed their song, "Pretty Punished Ponygirl".
The third book came out after a long delay. By this time, her popularity had waned, and sales were poor. The ponygirl was no longer a moneymaker. Not only that, but she was nearing forty, and the ordeals of the past few years had taken their toll on her looks. It was time to let her go.
Alexa O'Malley, talented nature photographer-turned-ponygirl was auctioned off online, and sold to an anonymous buyer. She was never seen or heard from again.
Copyright 2017 by Sogo.
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