An Interest in Ponygirls

An Interest in Ponygirls

East Coast Slaver Organization Story - IV

Chapter 15 – The Next Challenge (or A Most Historic Race)

Joan awoke alone, this time covered in a thick comforter atop a king-size inflatable mattress. She stretched in enjoyment under the covers and peered about the gloomy interior of her tent. “It's not yet dawn,” she thought. “Where is Joseph?” Naked under the covers, Joan slowly reached down to touch her tender sex.

“God!” she whispered. “We were two horny, rutting beasts last night.” Indeed, Joan had leapt atop Joseph within seconds of gaining her freedom after the long tattooing session. Thankfully, he was already naked and she only had to straddle his hips and set her weight upon his upward pointing dick. She had sighed a long groan of appreciation as her sensitive interior was once again in full contact with his marvelous sex organ. After already milking a full load of jism out of him, Joan was certain that Joseph would let her have a long, lingering fuck before he lost control and spurted. She was right. Joan had rocked slowly atop him, carefully stirring his wondrous cock head across her ‘G' spot as well as nearly every other inner surface of her cunt. Her fingernails grabbed tightly enough at his sculpted pectorals to leave long red wheals. Joan triggered several of her own, wondrously satisfying orgasms before she began to rock faster and faster, building up to a massive, final orgasm. Her thoughts in the milliseconds before he grunted out his undeniable explosion, were about the odds of his sperm finding a newly dropped egg inside her body. The thought of her husband's secret plan to impregnate her and make her lactate like a cow triggered a mind-bending orgasm. Nearly unable to breathe in the passion of the moment, Joan collapsed across her lover, thrilling in their sweaty contact. Before she passed out, Joan managed to strip off her clothes and toss them up onto the nearby table. She took a much-needed nap until her husband woke her for more sex about midnight .

Finished reliving her night of rewarding sexual activity, Joan scratched her fingertip across her slippery clit. “Hmmm, nice,” she moaned. Her other hand slipped the covers up over her head and she curled into a fetus position. The hand locked to her pussy ran gently pinching fingers all the way around the edge of her outer labia. A second time around, her fingers pinched slightly harder and also tugged gently. Joan wriggled her hips and moaned louder. Oddly, running through her mind were thoughts about how she would deal with the loss of his so satisfying cock while she was in Miami . She grinned at an image of her sitting in her private restroom at her clinic, white lab coat and dress bunched up around her hips, and panties tightly stretched around her ankles while her feet spread as widely as possible to allow a burrowing finger deep access to her innermost vaginal walls. “Eiii,” she whispered, “I'll have to print out his emails and read them while I frig myself off.” Her other hand had taken possession of both her nipples at the same time, pinching the hard nubbins and stretching them toward each other. The ache echoed all the way down to her cunt. Pinching and questing fingers began to squeeze and dig harder and deeper; Joan thrilled to the images of the humiliating poses, styles of dress, eating as an animal, being sexed like unthinking livestock, and other acts viewed as repellent by society, all things that she had been forced to do. Joan wondered how much of her free time was going to be spent frigging off in her bed, her office, and restrooms all around town. “After all,” she added philosophically, “that's why women spend so much time in bathrooms.”

She giggled, remembering an encounter with an acquaintance and subordinate in the restroom at her clinic. One day when she was conducting office visits and no surgery, she had wandered into her office's private restroom and headed quickly into a stall to pee. Her soft-soled shoes made her entry silent, and somehow she closed her stall door and was in the process of pulling her panties down when she heard a noise in the adjacent stall. Joan had frozen in place so that she could listen intently, stuck in a squatted-down position, inches above the commode lid with her panties around her knees, and thumbs still hooked in the waistband. “It sounds like a whimpering animal,” she had thought, never guessing at first what was going on. Finally, she discerned the sound of panting, a faint muffled squealing, and a wet squishy sound. Joan had colored in embarrassment at the realization that a woman was fingering herself quite noisily in the stall next to hers. “I wanted to peek under the divider,” she remembered, “but the privacy screens went from floor to ceiling in my bathroom.” Still needing to pee, she carefully tugged up her panties, smoothed her skirt and lab coat, and slipped out of the stall.

Long minutes later, Joan was sitting demurely on the granite vanity top when Beth, her office assistant backed out of the stall. Beth almost peed her pants when she turned and saw Joan sitting there with a huge grin on her face. The unmistakable smell of aroused pussy wafted past Beth and Joan sniffed the pungent smell in deeply, visibly enjoying catching her friend in the act.

Beth's face was noticeably ashen as she stood, trapped against the stall door where she had enjoyed a series of wondrous climaxes.

Joan had smirked and whispered, “And men think we're always fixing our makeup. Well, … it's true, but in your case, Beth, I think you must be repairing the damage from a sweaty face and streaked makeup after you've popped off a few orgasms in silence. Well, … it was sort of silent. After all, you did sound like a whimpering little slut in heat.” She slipped confidently off the vanity and strode over to the humiliated woman. “And what got you so hot?” she purred as she stood face to face with the woman, barely controlling her hands from taking possession of the still panting woman's slowly heaving breasts. “I never took advantage of Beth,” she remembered wistfully. “If I had it to do over again, I'd have somehow recorded it in my cell phone or something and used the incident to take control of her tight panties. Hmmm, … she did smell so divine.” Even several years later, Joan's fingers twitched at the thought of what she would have done had the incident been more recent, “I'd have driven at least three fingers into her already juicy box and pinned her to the stall wall.” Joan's face took on a look of wistful loss as she reviewed how she could have massaged her ‘G' spot with her long forefinger and controlled the silly woman's clit with her thumbnail. “I could have made her beg for release. Each time she got too close, I'd have pinched her clit, making her have to start over again with building up to an orgasm. Hmmm, delicious.”

Joan's long-term loss from playing with Beth meant she never found out if she had a talented tongue or not. “I should've forced Beth down to her office, bound her naked under my desk in a kneeling hogtie, and conducted office visits with the horny woman servicing me. And, …” Joan whispered, “I'd have found out what she was frigging off to and made her live it in real life if she was having a fantasy. Yes, Beth would have paid for that transgression with lots of humiliation for her and pleasure for me.” Joan's pussy twitched at the thought.

Satisfied after her own orgasm, and the remembered short-term humiliation of her subordinate Beth, she worked her way to the edge of the mattress and awkwardly slipped out into the crisp desert morning air. She gingerly hopped over to a folding table, staggered a bit from her weak post-orgasmic state, and grabbed her same blouse and vest she had worn the day before; which she quickly shrugged into. Remaining bottomless, she poured some icy water into a small bucket, dipped a washcloth in, and squatted down so she could rinse off her well-used privates.

After Joan cleaned her underarms and completed her ‘whores' shower,' she realized that they had missed any chance for dinner the night before. Her stomach growled as she stepped out of the tent, still buttoning her vest in place. “Joseph must be with the Ponygirls,” she thought as she began the short walk over to their tent. “Empty?” she thought with some panic. “There is no sign that anyone slept here.” She hurried over to the open-air tent and found her fiancé.

Four naked Ponygirls sat on their massage cots from the night before, loosely anchored in place by nose chains that hung from the tent's ridgepole. Joseph turned toward Joan and sheepishly whispered, “We forgot to put our Ponygirls away last night. I did manage to cover them up after the tattooing, but never did move them to their single bed in the other tent.”

Joan took a deep breath of relief at his explanation. “Good thing I was tied up last night,” she said aloud. “Else, … I think I might be getting a paddling this morning.” Then she added with a little gentle sarcasm, “Guess you're exempt as a Master though.”

Joseph stopped his sorting of outfits for the Ponygirls and walked over to Joan. He gently grabbed her upper arm and said, “Let's go to the mess tent and get some coffee and breakfast. We can also arrange for feeding our livestock.”

“Coffee? Mess tent?” Joan questioned. “Let's go,” she said while locking her other arm over his.

As promised the night before, workers from Ponygirl Heaven Ranch had shown up two hours before dawn and stoked up a cookstove in another open-sided tent. Steaming coffee was available in carafe thermoses and the delicious aroma of bacon and biscuits hung heavily in the tent. Joseph steered Joan to a seat at a table and after getting them each a cup of hot black coffee, sat down beside her. “Nice, huh?” he said, looking about at the work the ranch had done to give them a comfortable night and a hot breakfast. Before Joan could answer he interjected, “Course, the workers have already passed the word that we couldn't stop fucking long enough yesterday to eat our grilled steak dinner last night.”

Joan was stricken at the thought that she had lost the chance to eat a steak dinner. “After months of liquid food, Joseph, I never thought I'd miss a real meal again. Guess we did have a lot of distraction last night.”

Joseph laughed in relief at her seemingly easy acceptance of her forced tattoo. “Thank you,” he whispered sincerely. “The tattoo means so much to me but I couldn't ruin it by asking your permission. The way I thought it out, if you hated the tattoo and hated the way I forced it upon you, then I was certain we were wrong as a couple. It was sort of the final test for me. I am now positive that marriage is the right choice. You are my perfect bride.”

She sat a moment, mulling her answer. “I feel a deep connection with you that is certainly love; marriage is definitely worth a try. But, … it is possible that we may both change our minds as we juggle our different careers, me commuting between Arizona and Miami , and we begin to deal with the complexities of our relationship. Our games are going to play serious havoc with our mental well being as I switch through the different roles that I seem to crave.”

Joseph clasped one of her hands in a strong grip and they stared at each other silently as they individually mulled over the recent developments in their relationship. Finally, still holding hands, each took a sip of coffee. The ranch hands served hot eggs, sausage, biscuits, and jelly. Joan grew more certain of her love for the strong rancher as they continued to eat in comfortable silence. Neither made any attempt to release hands during breakfast.

The only distraction was the brief moment when Joseph whispered something to the youngest Filipino Joan had seen at the ranch. Later, she would discover that the sixteen-year old had just arrived and was still in shock over the nudity and sexual availability of the western women captive at the ranch. An uncle working at the ranch when worried family members contacted him had arranged the boy's hasty departure from the Philippines . The boy had unintentionally interrupted a key drug transaction between a dissident element on the islands and a local corrupt official. The family was sure that between the government and the leftists, the boy was targeted for a revenge killing. He was whisked away to the capital and hidden until the uncle could beg for assistance from his sponsor, the Greek shipping magnate Niarchos Constantinople. Niarchos decided the boy was too young to work on one of his freighters and send him to work with his uncle at Ponygirl Heaven Ranch in Arizona . After the whispered conversation with Joseph, the boy hurried out of the tent with an armload of plastic water bottles and what Joan thought were sports bottles filled with Ponygirl liquid meals.

Content, the two lovers headed back to the grooming tent. Joan stood and let the activity inside sink in, not really shocked, but nonetheless surprised. All four women remained on their cots, a bottle of water and a bottle of liquid meal in each hand. Three of the women were single-mindedly concentrating on their drinks, happy to be using hands and a bottle rather than the hollow cock drink dispenser. It appeared that the boy thought he had time for a fast fuck and had singled Becky Sawyer out for sexing. He had dropped trousers, sat back on the cot, and pulled her naked ass upon his lap, wedging his teenage cock into the blonde Ponygirl's pussy from underneath. Evidently, he had long since spurted his cum into a limp condom and Becky was mindlessly humping against his limpness, still trying to trigger her elusive orgasm.

Joseph took charge. “Joan, get the three Ponygirls into their new clothes. I'll get the boy to clean up his mess and dry her off before we get the slut dressed.

Minutes later while the boy protested about cleaning her gooey twat, Becky was still contentedly drifting in her dreamy state of Ponygirl thinking. She hadn't even blushed when she faintly heard her sister's ex-fiancé chiding her for being a cock-hungry whore. “After all, I am a slut,” she thought. Even knowing that she had actually initiated the sex by coming on to the sixteen-year-old virgin and using him to get herself off, hadn't made her feel any humiliation. The boy's complaints about how gross and slimy her twat was didn't bother her either. She just placidly stood in place as directed while he washed and dried her sex. The last forced tattooing might have removed any remaining vestiges of resistance.

Becky had seen the young boy come into the tent carrying their water and food. While the other three women had been eager to use their hands and start drinking, Becky had used one of her free hands to curl around his belt and draw his hips toward her. The other hand had expertly unzipped his jeans and fished out his cock. The boyish cock quickly swelled to its full five-inch length. Undaunted by the immaturity of the cock, Becky had jacked her hand along its length and cooed in very real excitement. She had swirled her tongue ring around his cock head to get him fully aroused, slipped a condom from his pocket, and covered his dick in a protective sheath of latex. In a matter of seconds, she used her larger mass to maneuver the boy's naked ass to the edge of the cot and then backed her ass up onto his lap, spearing his cock into her wet and slimy cunt. The boy had reached around her chest, anchored his hands on her fat breasts, and held on for dear life while she began to fuck herself like a bouncing demon on his cock. Far too quickly, she felt him spasm under her, finished for the moment.

While grooming or hearing herself discussed as a horny animal didn't get Becky's attention, the new clothes did. The sheer man-made material that hugged her skin from ankles to neck breathed well and easily supported her heavy boobs. Childishly, like a little girl, she preened a little after her skimpy translucent pants and top were added. She thought she looked cute in her matching hues of pastel lime-green clothing. Traditional socks, shoes, and gloves were next. Her big surprise was that her Mohawk was not waxed upright and the awful butt plug was nowhere in sight. She barely kept from shying back when a hat flickered up past her face on the way to cover her scalp. Joseph's calming touch was helpful as he whispered for her not to be so skittish. As Becky moved easily to be harnessed up, she felt lighter and stronger than when tacked up naked.

While Joseph was readying the last Ponygirl, Joan had discovered the odd-looking cart beside the tent. The cart's three narrow drawbars gave away its use as a Ponygirl cart. The body was made of a glistening black, man-made material and the wheels were huge, easily five-feet high. She bent to pick up the front end of a drawbar and was astounded at the lightness of the cart frame. “The size of the wheel and the wide tires let it roll like a dream,” she whispered, “I wish this was the cart used in my race.” She ran her hand appreciatively along the glass-slick surfaces.

Joseph came up behind her and wrapped an arm possessively around Joan. “The cart is unique; none like it has ever been built. The entire assembly is constructed of high-tech man-made materials. Even though it is nearly indestructible, the weak link remains the wheel, that's why we have a spare. The extra-large diameter wheels let it roll easily over most obstacles and the leaf springs keep the ride smooth. The three drawbars unpin from their sleeves, slide forward, and pivot down to make the ridges of a low profile tent. Storage wells hold side poles, canvas, and a spare axel. In the desert, it'll only take two to three minutes to set up the tent, providing shelter from the sun and rest during the hottest part of the day. There is lots of storage; under the seat, in the storage bed behind the seat, and the honeycomb matrix of the body holds fifteen gallons of water. A built-in reverse osmosis filter well cleans any water that can be poured into the honeycomb. The wheel rubber is incredibly strong, solid, and without air pressure so it can't become flat.

“OK, Joseph,” Joan asked, exasperated at his slow manner of letting her know what the plan was, “tell me now.”

Joseph gently spun Joan Miller around so that they were face-to-face. His big hands took possession of her trim ass and he whispered in her ear, “Have you heard of the ‘ Ocean of Fire '?”

The name meant nothing to Joan. She shook her head in the negative.

“What about Frank T. Hopkins?” Joseph asked.

Joan stiffened. She looked up at his face and scowled, “Are you outta your freaking mind? A 3,000 mile survival race across the Arabian desert ; … is that what you are talking about?”

Joseph laughed at Joan's response and said, “Well, you've figured out part of it. The ‘ Ocean of Fire ' was supposedly an annual race, restricted to the finest Arabian horses ever bred, that crossed 3,000 miles of burning desert sand and rock. The recent movie highlighted the adventures of the American, Frank T. Hopkins, who claimed that in 1890 he and his mustang, Hidalgo , ran and won the event.” Joseph slid hands up to grasp her chin and kissed her forehead, her cheeks, and her mouth with a deep lingering kiss. Satisfied that he had her attention, he whispered, “This year, Saudi Peninsula sheiks and sultans have put together a huge purse for an approximately thirty-five day race that will cover about eleven hundred miles of Yemen , Saudi Arabia , and the United Arab Emirates . The purse is huge and includes extra cash bonuses and slaves lost from certain losing teams that have to pay forfeits if they drop out early.”

The thought was enough to make Joan tremble in fear. She had seen the movie and gotten a little bit of appreciation for the harsh conditions such a race would entail. “What about desert nomads, bandits, and slave traders?” she queried back. “What about our girls? We could easily have a serious injury or fatality. What will you do if you have to forfeit one of your teams? Or, … both teams for that matter?”

“The sponsoring sheik is providing four million dollars to the purse and will cover all the expenses. Each of the twenty teams puts one hundred thousand into the pot, making the total payout a guaranteed minimum of six million dollars. Half the pot goes to the winner, half of what remains goes to second place, half of the remainder goes to third place, etc. Any quitters in the first five days of the race lose both Ponygirl teams, the freedom of their Ponygirl Mistress, and an additional one hundred thousand dollars. Teams that drop out in the next five days will lose a Ponygirl team and one hundred thousand dollars.”

First Place	3,000,000
Second Place	1,500,000
Third Place	800,000
Fourth Place	400,000
Fifth Place	200,000
Sixth Place	100,000
Total Purse	6,000,000

“Ponygirls abandoned while on the course belong to whoever gets them under lock and key first. So, … the winning team will get three million dollars, plus first choice of confiscated slaves, their share of forfeit fees, and bragging rights for the best Ponygirls in the world. We could have all that. The idea of the extra slaves is delicious.” Joseph leaned down and kissed her soft lips and added, “Besides, … it would be a lot of fun to make money, have great sex, and to turn a few lives around. Hopefully we will grind down some arrogant blueblood egos into quivering, helpless slaves and supply East Coast Slavers Organization with some nice stock.”

Joan smiled faintly and whispered, “Well, Master, … it looks like you have made up your mind. But, what if we have an early forfeit and you lose me?”

Joseph looked startled and locked eyes with his fiancé. “You must know that I'm talking about getting a different Ponygirl Mistress. I couldn't possibly risk losing you,” he said with passion and concern in his voice.

“Better rethink your plans, my high Lord and Master,” she said with some sarcasm dripping in her voice. “I am your Ponygirl Mistress, period, … end of conversation.”

Joseph pinched an ass cheek hard enough to bruise and hissed, “OK, … if that's how you want it. But, be warned, … you will be punished for this attitude.”

Joan cuddled up against his lean form and said, “Promises, … promises. Big boy, do you think you can really do it?” She shivered at the thought of how he would make her pay. It was an eager shiver; Joan was already primed for another sexing. “If I upset him enough, I'll have a guaranteed role in the race and he'll probably fuck me to death after teasing me mercilessly. Yes, what a great life this is. If this keeps up, I'll spend the rest of my life whacking off in restrooms every free moment I get.”

Joseph Loftus and Joan Miller soon sat side by side for the first time on a Ponygirl carriage. Joan wriggled her butt on the thinly padded seat. “It's not bad,” she thought, “the springs are nice.” She surveyed their twin sets of Ponygirls already harnessed to the three drawbars and pulling smoothly as they accelerated away from the basecamp. The lime-green outfits were stunning. Joan couldn't help but look at the trim little asses swaying in front of her. “Weird not having the Mohawks to look at,” she thought. Her hand drifted over to Joseph's crotch. “Joseph!” she mock scolded, “you're as full of lust as one of the Ponysluts. Are you in heat?'

The carriage whip cracked strongly over the team's heads. Joseph spared a sideways look at his fiancé and he answered with a challenging grin, “Hmmm, I bet if I slide my hand up under your skirt that it'll be as sloppy as if you've been in an all night gangbang.”

Joan groaned and replied, “OK, OK, … you're right. These bitches moving in front of us are like sex personified. Let's plan on a quick rest stop fuck later on. We can tease these cunts while you drill my pussy.” With that said, she reached over and gently took control of the four sets of reins from Joseph. She measured them equally and spoke louder over the rushing wind and rattling gravel, “I need the practice. As you said earlier, we'll gauge how well the Ponygirls move today on their twenty-five mile course. Then, we decide about participating in this ‘ Ocean of Fire ' race.”

Joan decided that the two teams were moving easier and stronger with their new outfits on. She looked at the map board and judged that just over an hour into the day's course the terrain would become considerably rougher. Joseph had already highlighted in green the one-hour segments where the Ponygirls would run. Yellow highlighted the areas where the team would walk. On that day's run, much of the walking was on steep uphill gradients. “Looks like two big rises over the twenty-five miles. The first long climb is two hundred meters and the second is almost three hundred meters. That's a lot of up and down hill work,” she thought.

The map display board was the same used on the sulkies from the previous day's ride. The four digital readouts were modified wireless bicycle computers receiving data from a magnetic pickup unit / transmitter on the side of the sulky. Each digital pulse ‘counted' each rotation of a wheel by sensing the passage of a magnet mounted on a wheel spoke. The GPS readout showed a blinking dot over halfway to the first hillclimb. Joan realized how helpful the technology would be in maintaining a competitive edge by maximizing her teams' performance against the specific terrain of the race course. A naïve outdoorsman and definite city woman, Joan had no idea how critical the GPS plotters would be in charting cross-country point-to-point courses when no roads or trails were available.

Joseph admired the easy movement of his fiancé sitting smoothly while the carriage undulated below them. “With both hands busy on the reins,” he thought, “you have to have great balance.” He turned to Joan and asked, “Have any curiosity about how much this rig cost?” he asked.

Joan answered without sparing him a glance, “I guess expensive. This is certainly a custom rig.”

“Custom, yes, and unique also,” Joseph answered wryly. “The design was by a team of out of work Russian weapons design engineers. We traded engineering drawings for weeks over the internet, fine-tuning the extra features. That part was surprisingly cheap. A team of aerospace engineers that worked on stealth fighters laid down the composite materials and baked them. The final cost was over ninety thousand dollars. Then I had to order and pay for all the equipment we'll carry.”

The number even took Joan by surprise.

“I've done a lot of research on this desert race,” Joseph added, “the breakdown rate will be extensive, meaning lots of forfeitures and enslavements. The reason for investing so much in the cart and equipment was to insure my team's survival. Also,” and here he paused a little guiltily, “even though I don't need money, the chance to win more than three million dollars, acquire extra slaves, the amazing sex, and maybe even humiliate some arrogant Masters and Mistresses; well, it was so tempting I had to go for it.”

Joan glanced down at the discrete array of digital readouts and gently drew back on the reins. “Slow, girls. Slowww. That's it, … walk on. Walk on,” she commanded as she guided her team to the one-hour walk phase. “Eight miles!” she told Joseph, “we've already come eight easy miles at a consistent seven-minute mile pace.”

Joseph looked at the happy woman beside him and answered, “Well, just remember, this is the easy part. Plus, … if we race, we have to do this day after day, for about thirty days. And, … you saw from last night that we have hours of cleanup and treatments in grooming these cunts before we put them to bed. Their wellbeing will have to come first. It will be grueling for all six of us.”

--L--A--T--E--R—

Joan grunted in a combination of pain, frustration, humiliation, and lust. The second day's ride had begun as everything she wanted and more. The Ponygirls performed strongly for the first eight-mile run and the following two-mile walk. The terrain had risen into such a steep and rough uphill climb that their walking pace was slow. Both Joseph and Joan were impressed with their progress, ten miles in just two hours.

The day took a downturn for Joan as Joseph tried to inspect the Ponygirls at a thirty-minute stop atop the first ridgeline, two hundred meters above the valley floor. The view was spectacular, but Joseph had eyes only for the team of Ponygirls. His hands swept down each panting form, covering every muscle group under the double layer of clothing in a practiced inspection. Gentile murmuring and a focused watching of their responses from his touches ensured a calm Ponygirl and a means of gauging their condition from his touches. Joan had become petulant as he focused on all the Ponyflesh, mentioning more than once how she thought he was going to ‘pork her' in front of the team. He started to lose his temper a little when he saw a definite smirk of superiority on Becky's face. It didn't help that he was in the process of checking her inner heat (a hand snaked deep into her stretchy pants with fingers burrowing inside her squishy quim) when Joan's hand crept around his waist and locked on his throbbing cock.

Joan should have known she was in trouble when Joseph wordlessly pulled away from her, yanked his wet fingers out of Becky's sloppy pussy, opened up the storage bin under the driver's seat, and pulled a handful of gear out. Joseph buckled leather blinders around the forehead of his lead team, keeping them from looking to the rear while harnessed. Still ignoring Joan, he wrapped a black silk blindfold around each of the Ponygirls on his rear team, ‘Three' (Lisa) and ‘Four' (Lori). When he turned to Joan, she practically leapt atop him in her eagerness to get his cock inside her needy cunt. Her enthusiasm ended in a gurgle of pain when she started to collapse to her knees and began to vomit over the desert floor.

“This is never going to work, Joan,” Joseph complained as he steadied her fall after rabbit punching her in the gut, “unless you learn that the condition of our team is first in everything. It's time to remind you of our first responsibilities. Otherwise, we'll die in some Saudi desert hellhole because we've failed to keep our teams sound as they fight to get safely through every horrid obstacle that we'll face. I guarantee I will never let you forget this lesson again.”

Joan was unable to answer, her throat burned from the vomit that had spilled over her clothing. Breathless, she couldn't even nod her understanding. Later she would wonder that her need for sex could have ever have overwhelmed her common sense.

In a matter of minutes, Joseph had thrown the cargo net off the back end of the wagon, unclipped the release on the spare wheel, and pulled the wheel off to tie it at an angle against one of the carriage wheels. Joan was still gasping for breath when Joseph threw her belly-first against the slanted wagon wheel. He took each wrist and tied her tightly with arms spread widely apart at ten o'clock and two o'clock positions on the wheel. Her ankles were similarly tied at seven o'clock and five o'clock positions. He drew the glittering blade of a sheath knife from his belt and quickly skinned off her vest and white cowgirl shirt. Her skirt and panties that she had so admired the morning before were next to flutter free of her body. The razor-sharp knife converted the leather skirt into long strips. Joseph rolled her panties into a leather strip and crammed the fat wad into her mouth. Another ragged strip of leather jammed the gag in deeper and he tied if off behind her head.

Joan was sure she had really fucked up when she felt him fumbling around her neck. “The collar,” she screamed silently, “he's put a collar back on me.” Just seconds later, she heard the eerie whistling of the carriage whip. The pain that erupted in her ass was horrible and unexpected. The whip whistled again, and once more, a line of fire traced its way across a nakedly exposed upper thigh. The painful strokes continued. Joan fainted into merciful unconsciousness.

Joan awoke to strong pushing against her back, the thrusts throwing her naked tits and face painfully into the hard material of the wheel. Dimly, she became aware of panting against her ear and a hoarse whispering. “Cunt,” she heard, “you are a slutty bitch. What a whore.” Joan tried to wake her foggy brain and work past the painful burning across her back, ass, and upper legs. “Oh, God,” she moaned to herself, “it's one of the Ponygirls. Joseph must be fucking her against me. Oh, shit!” It was obvious from the staccato pattern of the thrusts that Joseph was getting more and more excited as he drilled into the Ponygirls pussy from behind. Joan could feel the woman's fat, clothing-clad breasts rubbing against her naked back. The Ponygirl's teeth nipped at her neck, more painfully than if it was just a lust-inspired bite.

“Horny cunt,” the female voice accused again in a quiet whisper, “you're still a Ponygirl inside. You don't deserve to be free. Ahhh, I'm such a better fuck than you are. Eiii! He's gonna make me cum even before he paints my pussy with his jism.”

Joan tensed up as the exultant voice became noticeably aroused as her claimed orgasm approached. “Bitch!” Joan accused silently, “I wish Joseph had left their collars on. I didn't need them to humiliate me.” She mulled over whether to ask Joseph to punish the girl for her impertinence against her Mistress. Then she realized, “When I'm being whipped, I'm property not a Ponygirl Mistress.”

--L--A--T--E--R—

Her lungs felt like they were going to burst and her skin was afire from the direct rays of the sun. The long bumpy hill seemed to stretch forever ahead of her eyes. Joan's ass hurt excruciatingly from the massive plug inflated there. “He's given me my tail,” she thought dismally. The humiliation of having the ridged plug shoved deep into her rectum had not been as sexually exciting as her dreams had indicated. Pumped up it was worse. It felt like a baby was struggling to fight its way out with every waddling step she took. The yellow flag wiggled and moved behind her head, yanking painfully on her intestines and stretching her anal ring. “Plus,” she thought, “my poor boobies hurt like hell.” She risked a quick look down to see her swollen nipples squeezed through the narrow opening of the heavy, silver star-shaped disk that had been ripped of the spurs adorning her boots. After Joseph ripped the silver star off the spurs, he had driven a temporary pin through Joan's nipple ring holes that had been in use as recently as the day before. Before she looked back to her path ahead, she saw her tits sway as the heavy silver spurs helped drag her meaty boobs to the side. “Ahhh,” she moaned, “that's gonna hurt tomorrow. Tomorrow, … I wonder what's in store for tomorrow?”

Joan had another reason for humiliation. Joseph had harnessed her naked in the second row of Ponygirls in position number four. That meant that instead of her getting orgasms during the break, Lori Heath, ‘Four' had not only gotten sexed, but she had gotten a load of his sperm. In addition, Joseph had obviously put blinders on the front team to spare her further humiliation during her stint as a Ponygirl. However, ‘Three', Lisa Heath, had a clear view of her naked form as she ran along beside her. Occasionally, Joan heard a hissed derogatory adjective directed at her from ‘Three's' mouth, increasing her humiliation.

The whip whistled overhead once and then a second time, popping loudly each time. Joseph's voice shouted out over the crunching gravel as the cart moved smoothly up the hill, “Steady, bitches! Easy on, … keep in step!” The whip whistled one more time and a line of fire traced up Joan's leg even before she heard the supersonic crack of the tip. Joan leaned forward into her harness, pulling a little bit more of the load. She heard her lover's shouted, “Better you slutty whoremonger bitches! Better!” Joan gasped a deep breath, held it to quiet the pain in her ribs, and let it out in a long whoosh. In addition to the other distractions, Joan's swollen feet throbbed. She was still wearing her paddock boots that comfortable, were never meant for running, especially with the two-inch heels.

Suddenly, Joan realized they were now atop the ridgeline. “Thank God!” she moaned, “it's time to rest. Why didn't he slow to a walk earlier as planned, we've run constantly since the break when he whipped me?” Then she had an idea, “maybe he's really pissed at me. Holy fuck! Am I in big trouble, or what?” Joseph kept the Ponygirls' pace the same all the way along the long ridgeline. Joan struggled to remember how far they had run and how far they had to go.

Joseph was proud of his team's progress. They had moved well on the first ten-mile stretch before the break and maintained an even better pace as he pushed them another ten full miles without a walking break. As they approached the end of the ridge, he glanced down the steep switchbacks and realized that walking was their only option.

Lori Heath rested contentedly between the widespread legs of her owner and Master. She was seated on the floorboards facing forward and enjoying the ride with no ropes, chains, or restraints holding her in place. Her head and one hand rested possessively on Joseph's thigh. One reason for her contentment was the long hard fuck that he had thrown into her during the only rest stop of the day. His long, fat cock battering into her pussy from behind had felt so good. “Plus,” she thought, “tormenting my Mistress was lovely. She was so pissed that I got his cock.” The exciting thoughts made Lori want to reach down between her legs to scratch her still needy pussy. She held back, only because her Master had forbidden her to pleasure herself while she was sitting beside him. Lori had learned much since her enjoyable fuck earlier in the day. “I discovered that Master really values us,” she told herself smugly, “he even beat his Ponygirl Mistress for not paying proper attention to us.” She ran one hand lovingly across his thigh beside her cheek and continued, “We can trust him to care for us.” The revelation was astounding to her because of the way she was treated as simple meat by the workers at Ponygirl Heaven Ranch. “I'll tell the others,” she vowed knowing how amazingly lucky they were to be purchased by a loving Master. “It makes our life so much better,” she thought happily while visualizing the image of her puffy hairless cunt drooling a fresh load of thick sperm after he fucked her so well against the whipped back of the Ponygirl Mistress.

Joseph ran his gloved hands over the black Mohawk resting against his thigh and felt the patterned ridges from the tightly braided rows. “The little imp,” he thought with a grin, “she knows that she is making me hard.” His grin faltered as he looked at the only naked woman running ahead of him. He signaled for a walk and all four women slipped smoothly into the slower pace. Joan's naked ass drew his eyes again and he whispered, “Yes, … that's why we keep them naked during exhibitions.”

Dreaming about her destroyed clothing, Joan hoped for her freedom and the arms of her lover. “Complicated relationship,” she observed silently, as the slowed paced allowed her to finally get her breathing settled down toward normal. She remembered his secret plan to force her to lactate and become pregnant without her knowledge. Even with her painful welts, Joan's cunt spasmed as she thought of being milked like a Ponycow. Then, her shiver of arousal became fear as she remembered how the knobby sections of the inflatable cock in her ass had popped into her guts with audible plops and sent electric shocks through her nerves as her sphincter kept snapping down onto the thinner sections of the cock. “Eiii!” she moaned, “Oh, Joan, … your horny nature has gotten you in trouble again. You stupid slut, don't you ever learn!”

--- To Be Continued ---

 

Author: Desert Dog ****** E-Mail: Desertlickingdog at yahoo dot com

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