The Lost Prince--A Ponygirl Epic

CHAPTER SEVEN—WORKING GIRL

With the sun down and the last stragglers out of the mines, Mom's began to fill up rapidly. There were two other establishments in town, but neither of them had the history, quality of liquor, or excess of whores that Mom's did. Nine of ten men working in the mines, young or old, married or not, spent money at Mom's before their tour was over.

The main bar room was elbow to elbow, a mix of tobacco smoke, the smell of spilled homemade beer and whisky, body odor, dust, with the occasional whiff of soap from the odd miner that washed up before coming in.

The women didn't spend too much time in the bar room itself. Not only was the music so loud they had to shout to be heard, the floor was so crowded they couldn't take two steps without being groped. Which wasn't bad, in and of itself, but Mom's Number One Rule was no wetwork in the bar room. So the women generally roamed the tables in the east half of the building, looking for customers which they then took outside, upstairs, or into a nearby hallway, depending on which service was requested and how hurried he was.

When S'Leah appeared, slowly descending the stairs, dozens of heads turned her way and wolf whistles echoed around the room. Upstairs she'd washed and hurriedly dressed for work, not wanting to miss the rush, knowing word of her presence was circulating.

Her straight black hair was cut short as a man's and parted down the center. Her full pouty lips were painted a glossy crimson, and her short fingernails shone with clear polish. She wore a jet black rubber miniskirt dress with spaghetti straps that barely came down below the cheeks of her ass. Not the industrial-grade rubber most of the other girls wore, a quarter-inch thick or nearly so, no, her dress was so thin it clung to her every curve. Every light in the place reflected off its glossy surface. Under it she wore nothing but a g-string, so the dress' lines would stay clean.

S'Leah's breasts were high and firm, larger than most and sporting perpetually erect nipples. The dress was scoop-necked, cut low enough to show her abundant cleavage.

On her feet she wore black leathyr toe boots that put her eye to eye with almost every man in the room. They laced up tight over her ankles and resembled nothing so much as ballet slippers with six inch spike heels. S'Leah walked as if she'd been born wearing them, on the ends of her toes, the heels taking about a quarter of her weight.

Between the dress and the boots were her legs, light enough in this deeply tanned realm to stick out. Her thighs were extraordinarily well-muscled, nearly to the point of being out of proportion to the rest of her body. The extreme angle of the toe boots made her big calves ball up like fists.

S'Leah strutted between the tables toward the crowded floor, knowing the other women were staring daggers at her. She had rather slender hips, but when she started swaying them back and forth conversations stopped.

She stopped at the edge of the crush of miners, stood with her feet apart and her hands on her hips, as the miners who knew her or knew of her explained in not-so-quiet whispers just what the big deal was to their buddies.

The tip of her tongue appeared, ran over her lips. "Who's first?" she called out casually.

Money exploded out of pockets and wallets as twenty men scrambled to find her price. A wiry pipeworker in beat-up chaps and denims had the cash in hand and stepped forward. With a sly smile S'Leah took the wad of bills, then turned and sashayed toward a side door. The man's eyes were glued to her swinging ass as he followed her out the door and into a black hallway. The corridor smelled of sex, sweat, semen and leathyr, and was dimly lit compared to the bright bar-room. A miner had one of the girls bent over at the far end of the hall, doing her doggy style, and their grunts echoed off the stained walls.

The wad of bills surreptitiously tucked into the front of her g-string, S'Leah pushed the wiry, ponytailed worker up against the wall. She kept her eyes on his as she sank to her knees before him and began undoing his belt buckle.

"Two rules," she told him with a purr, as his zipper went down. "No talking, and don't touch my head. Ever ."

"Yeah, okay," he said breathlessly, nodding.

His organ was stiff as a tree branch and respectable in size. It sprung forward from his trousers with eagerness, as did the strong musk of his unwashed body. S'Leah blinked to keep her eyes from tearing up, and licked her lips. She stared the man in the eyes as she bent her head to his cock and licked at the head. Her ass stuck out provocatively, knees wide apart for balance.

She ran her tongue over and around it, coating it with saliva. He groaned and leaned back against the wall. She licked down and back up one side of the shaft, then the other, until it gleamed with spit. Then her mouth sank down on him and the man gasped as her soft wet tongue went wild, thrashing against and around his member like a rabid animal in a cage.

S'Leah reached up and cupped his buttocks in her palms. She sucked and swirled, sucked and swirled, bobbing her head frantically. The man was panting now, watching as with each bob of her head she took more of his tool into her mouth. With no warning, and seemingly without effort, she buried her nose in his crotch. He groaned as her throat pulsated around his member, buried to the hilt in her eager orifice. She bobbed and swirled, licked and sucked hard, bouncing her face off his body like the seven-and –a-half-inch cock was only half that long. As she slid her face into his pants, nose pressed hard against his hairy mound, he felt her tongue snake out and lick at his balls.

"Gaah!" he said explosively, trying hard not to come so soon. He bent over and shoved both his hands down the front of her dress. Her breasts were warm and firm as rubber, her hard nipples like pebbles against his palms. He pulled the creamy orbs out of the top of her dress and squeezed hard.

With him bent over, S'Leah couldn't get as good of an angle on his shaft, what with his ribcage pushing against the top of her head. Without pause she turned her head sideways and began jackhammering his cock into her crimson-lipped mouth, gripping his asscheeks roughly through the denim. Her tongue was a flailing serpent, everywhere at once, her throat clutching at him. That was all it took.

"Oh God!" he gasped, tensing.

S'Leah pulled him hard against her face, her fingers digging hard into his buttocks as the man climaxed. He thrust against her head as the seed spurted out of him and she rode him tight, keeping him in an iron grip. She could feel the spurts coursing down the length of his organ before they shot deep into her throat, past the base of her tongue. She sucked hard, milking every last drop from him, as he slowly released his hold on her breasts, panting hard.

When she was sure she had it all S'Leah let go of his ass and slid her mouth off his pink, still hard flesh. He'd lasted all of three minutes under her expert attentions, about average. While he zipped himself back into his jeans she stood up and dusted off her knees, then tucked her breasts back inside the rubber dress.

The miner smiled and nodded at her, a little embarrassed that he'd popped off so quick. Her hard nipples, though, each the size of the end of his pinkie, assured him that he'd made her hot, and with a wink at S'Leah he headed back to the bar for another drink.

Her nipples weren't hard from excitement. When she'd cut off the rings the holes hadn't healed over but rather scarred up.. Her hard nipples were more knotty scar tissue than anything else. The tight dress hurt them, but then so did just about everything else. They ached in cold weather, in rain, and whenever she wore clothes that were anything less than billowing.

The rings were the most prominent sign of her former life as a ponygirl, and she'd wasted no time removing them. Her nipples had been pierced when she was two, living in the Royal Stables. S'Leah, born to the bit, purebred with a vaunted lineage dating back to the first generation ponies. She'd had another name then.

As soon as she was walking, the trainers had her running around the courses, pulling small weighted barrows. There were hundreds of mature ponies in the Royal Stables but only a handful her age. S'Leah never got along with them, maybe because she was different, maybe because they knew she was different.

When she showed promise as a sprinter the trainers began grooming her to be a racing mount. Quarter-milers, half-mile dashes were her forte. The hormone-enriched PonyMix along with the endless hours of running each day helped her reach her potential and shaped her body to its task. As big as her thighs were today they seemed malnourished compared to the bulk she'd sported in her racing prime.

Even as S'Leah earned praise by winning Junior-League races she'd become more and more unmanageable. Where most of her sisters slept in groups she kept to herself, which only succeeded in drawing their scorn and distrust. As the girls reached maturity the verbal war turned physical, and the situation deteriorated until S'Leah had to be locked alone in a stall at night. The trainers were well aware there was a problem but nothing they did seemed to temper S'Leah's anger. Isolation, whippings, an increased training regimen, it all just seemed to inflame her more.

When she was sixteen the trainers entered the stable one morning to find S'Leah had broken loose and kicked one of her stablemates halfway to death with her hoofboots. It was the last straw. Even though she was purebred of the finest stock, hormone-enhanced, and lifetime trained, she was just too unbalanced to keep.

The mount S'Leah'd kicked would be permanently crippled, never to walk without a limp again. If she'd been fertile she could have been relegated to breeding duty until she grew too old to conceive, but she soon proved barren. As she was not unattractive she was instead sent to an inseminarium where they were always in need of females with superb physical endurance.

S'Leah was sold to a city taxi service, where she pulled citizens through the streets for two years, until the company owner got tired of her trying to bite and kick her stablemates and drivers. She was sold to another cab company, where she lasted even less time, and finally ended up sold to a trash company, part of a team of ten that pulled a refuse wagon to and from the city dump.

The trash wagon driver was quick with his whip during the day and his cock in the evening. S'Leah was a fighter, which made her all the more desirable in his eyes. He got into the habit of putting her on the tie bar every night and chaining her boots to the floor, so he could penetrate her at his leisure without having to worry about being kicked to death. It made her act up even more when hitched to the wagon, and the only way he could control her was the whip.

It was on one of her bad days that her benefactor found S'Leah. She was in position nine on the team, rear left, and refusing to pull. The driver was on the wagon, cursing up a storm and whipping her ass into a crosshatch of stripes, when the obviously wealthy woman strolled up in the hooded silk robe.

She took one long look into S'Leah's hate filled eyes and offered to buy her right then. The driver was too surprised to argue, especially at the sum she offered, and immediately unhitched S'Leah from the wagon and drove off.

The woman unhooked S'Leah's bit, removed the stained harness from her head, and looked her in the eyes.

"I give you your freedom," she said. "My man will remove your brands. Then it is up to you. Walk away, out of my sight, if you choose." She unhooked the armsleeve from S'Leah's corset and began unlacing it. After a minute she was able to pull it free, and S'Leah's arms fell to her sides, tingling. It had been three years since her arms had been unbound, and they felt alien to her.

"Or," the woman said, her voice dropping, "I can teach you, educate you, show you how to make those who have done this to you suffer." The woman looked her in the eye. "You'll never be a slave again," She said, "but what you do with the rest of your life is up to you."

There really had been no choice to make. The woman was true to her word, widening S"Leah's eyes to the world around her. She was taught how to read, write, and many other useful, less esoteric skills. S'Leah learned just how unique she was, how special, was told that was why she'd never gotten along with others.

The two years spent learning under her benefactor were the happiest time of her life, but S'Leah knew when it was time to leave. She'd been out on her own for eight years doing her benefactor's bidding, confident she was helping to make the world a better place, bring it clower to the way it used to be, the way it should be.

Out of harness and eating real food, her breasts had tripled in size and her thighs had lost half their bulk. She knew she could still outrun any man in the realm, not that she'd ever run from any fight. She'd been out of harness long enough that few people if any suspected that she'd ever been a pony. Old, retired ponies were common; young free ones were rare, almost unheard of. Her nipple rings were ancient history, although the painful scar tissue forced her to remember them everyday.

Her engineered genes were a blessing in some ways. Bound behind her nearly constantly for twenty years, common sense said her arms should have atrophied. They hadn't, and in fact had filled out with muscle in a few short months.

Royal mounts, whether they raced or hauled nobility back and forth to the palace, were expected to look good. S'Leah had been fitted for her first tailplug not long after her training first begun, and she'd grown up wearing one. No royal pony ever appeared in public without its tailplug, and even the taxi companies she'd hauled for had plugged their mounts. After fifteen straight years of running while wearing a decorative tailplug, her anus was a bulging circular knot of calloused burgundy flesh, unsightly and nearly numb. That, more than anything else, marked her as a former highbred mount. The tattoo on her neck signifying her status as property of the Royal Stables had been removed by palace stablehands when they sold her. The two overlapping brands on her left buttock from the taxi services had been removed by one of her benefactor's people, leaving not even a ripple.

S'Leah ran her tongue along her lips to moisten the crimson paint, which would last most of the evening without needing a retouch, smoothed a wrinkle on her dress, and strode through the doorway to find her next customer. The short line of men that had formed, waiting for her, wasn't that much of a surprise. She pursed her lips sexily and curled her finger at the first in line, sweatily clutching a wad of bills in nervous hands.

S'Leah eyed those quivering hands as she led him around the corner and sank to her knees. Two minutes, tops, if she had to wager. Easy money, as long as he wasn't the One.

"Here's the rules, Sugar," she said.