|by Van © 2016
fifteen minutes passed with Bridget still tethered between the
two posts, squirming and fuming. Freckles! she
thought. I don't need a new name, and if I did, it certainly
wouldn't be 'Freckles!' The ponygirl harness
remained as tight and inescapable as ever. Even without
the mittens encasing her hands and rendering her fingers
useless, she very much doubted she'd ever be able to escape the
cunningly designed embrace of the corset, harness, and
crotch-piece, no matter how hard or how long she struggled.
The sun was bright, too bright, and Bridget was beginning to
sweat. At least the spandex breathes, she thought
with a sigh, and it protects my skin from the sun.
Her face was another matter, however, and she was afraid that
when she was finally released and allowed to return home
(meaning stomp home), she'd do so with greatly enhanced
freckling across her cheeks and nose. I just hope they
don't leave me here long enough to develop a freckle-free line
under this damn gag strap.
Bridget paused in mid-struggle. She'd become aware of a
faint tinkling noise coming from somewhere to her left, around
the side of the main stable. The sound became louder...
and was joined by the thud of clopping hooves. And then,
Bridget's eyes popped wide as a truly bizarre vision came into
Two harnessed but otherwise nude women had appeared! Both
were brunettes and in very good shape, with deep, even
tans. Their harnesses were similar to the one hugging
Bridget's outraged and amazed body, but without
crotch-pieces. The two brunette "ponies" were naked from
their corseted waists to the tops of their pony-boots, with
their thick, luxuriant pubic bushes on open display. There
was another difference: their tack was a darker shade of brown,
but with the same bronze buckles and fittings as Bridget's, as
well as the same gleaming texture.
Ponygirls! Real ponygirls!
The women were, unmistakably, ponygirls! They were pulling
a cart or carriage or whatever you call the two-wheeled
conveyance rolling behind their harnessed bodies, and their gags
were rubber-padded bits, unlike the ball plugging Bridget's
mouth. Finally, long reins trailed from the head-harnesses
(bridles?) caging their heads and anchoring the bits,
then back to Lydia's hands. The blond stable mistress
wasn't seated in the single bucket-seat of the cart-thingie, but
was walking at its side, even with the turning wheels.
"Whoa," Lydia said as she pulled back on the reins. The
ponygirls and cart stopped, and now the strange spectacle was
even with Bridget and the two posts.
Amazed couldn't begin to describe Bridget's feelings. Real
ponygirls! And they look every bit as helpless as I am!
"Ah, excellent!" a now familiar voice exclaimed.
Bridget turned to the right and beheld Eve strolling around the
side of the stable. Her riding costume was unchanged, but
she'd added gloves and was carrying what Bridget believed was
called a buggy-whip.
"You know what I want done with Freckles," Eve said to Lydia as
she took the reins from her hand and climbed up onto the cart's
"I know," Lydia said, "but I'll determine the length of
her exercise period."
Eve frowned. "Until I get back from my sulky ride," she
"Or sooner," Lydia countered. "I'm in charge of the
stables, including the training of all horses and ponies.
Freckles is unbroken, untrained, and not in proper
condition. Rely on my expertise."
Eve sighed. "You're right, of course, but she's to remain
gagged, and you know why." With that, Eve gave the reins a
shake and the whip a snap, and the pongirls stepped off
in perfect, well-trained unison.
Unbroken? Gagged? And Lydia knows why?
Bridget watched as the cart—she remembered Eve had called it a
"sulky"—continued down the riding path. The whip snapped
again, the ponygirls broke into a jogging trot, and the
fantastic vision disappeared into the forest.
Bridget turned back to find Lydia had gone to the left and right
posts and slackened the support chains linking her to the
pulleys in the beam overhead. The smiling blonde then
stepped in front of Bridget and released the clips attaching the
chains to the shoulder straps of her harness.
"Now," Lydia purred as she used her fingers to straighten the
bangs of Bridget's ginger pageboy, "you and I have to reach an
understanding. I don't care what role-playing game you're
playing with Eve. Pretend to be reluctant, surprised, and
outraged to your heart's content. That's between Mistress
Bridget frowned. What the hell is she talking
"That said," Lydia continued, "you're in my stable, now,
and you will obey every order I give you, to the best of your
ability, or you will be punished. Mistress pays me
to train her ponies, and you will be trained. Do
Bridget blinked in surprise. Train me? I don't
want to be—"Mrrrk!" Lydia had slapped her
gagged-face! It had been much more shocking than painful,
"Again," Lydia said. "Do. You. Understand?"
Bridget blinked a couple of more times, then nodded.
"Good." Lydia reached down and released the double-ended
clip joining Bridget's boot-tops. She then lifted a short
rope lead that had been draped over her shoulders, clipped one
end to a D-ring in the front of Bridget's harness, more or less
even with the top of the corset, and led her away. "If you
even try and kick me," she called back over her shoulder, "I'll
fetch a riding crop and give you a thrashing you'll never
In something of a daze, Bridget clomped obediently behind her
Stable Mistress. She certainly didn't want a thrashing.
Their destination was the exercise yard that had been part of
the tour, yesterday. Lydia clipped the pair of chains
dangling from one end of the motorized crossbeam overhead to the
D-rings at the shoulders of Bridget's harness, then released the
rope lead and draped it over her shoulders, as before.
Bridget noted that the exercise machine's chains had a few
inches of slack, enough that if she let them take her weight,
she's be almost on her knees.
"The motor is strong enough to drag you if you let it," Lydia
said, "but I don't recommend it. An alarm will sound and
I'll return and give you that thrashing I warned you about."
Bridget watched as Lydia strolled to the side door entrance to
the main stable and used a key to open the steel cover of some
sort of control box. The distance was too far for her to
see what was happening in detail, but Lydia seemed to be
punching buttons and turning dials. She then closed and
locked the cover and turned to smile at Bridget.
The motor at the hub of the crossbeam hummed, then the crossbeam
began to slowly turn. Bridget watched as the chains
dangling from her harness went taut, then pulled her
forward. Having no desire to be either dragged or
thrashed, Bridget stepped off.
"I know you aren't used to your new boots," Lydia said as
Bridget began slowly trudging around the circular track, "but
this is the only way."
Bridget continued around the track, her hoof-prints
superimposing themselves on the countless prints that had come
before... and when the control panel next to the door came back
into view... Lydia was gone.
The pony-boots really were giving Bridget's pointing feet
excellent support, but mincing along on tiptoe was hardly
something she was used to. Her toes weren't complaining
just yet, but she expected her little piggies would eventually
|A Pony Named Freckles
Bridget had no
idea how long she'd been walking in the endless circle imposed
by the slowly revolving crossbeam and its relentless motor, but
if felt like at least an hour... maybe more.
The sun was hot, her gagged face was shining with sweat, and the
rest of her was also sweaty, especially where the spandex
unitard was under the harness and corset. And as for her
poor feet, "squealing piggies" was inadequate. To coin a
phrase, her dogs were barking! It was a general
soreness, especially around her pointing toes, but her arches,
ankles, and calves were also complaining. And she could do
nothing about it other than lift one boot, plant it forward, put
her weight on her toes, lift the other boot, plant it forward,
put her weight on her toes—lather, rinse, repeat.
Actually, unlike a real sweating horse that might work up an
actual lather of equine perspiration, Bridget had to settle for
sweat dripping into her eyes, causing her now slightly damp
pageboy to droop, and possibly leaving telltale damp spots on
her bronze and vermilion iridescent unitard at all the expected
As for a rinse, Bridget very much desired a good rinse,
especially if it came in the form of a cold shower. She'd
settle for being doused with a hose. And if it included a
nice, cool drink, so much the better.
And as for the repeat part. Repeat, Bridget had.
Bridget had plenty of repeat. Clomping step
followed clomping step, and circle followed circle, with the
motor continuing its now highly irritating hum.
And then... it stopped. It all stopped—the
humming, the stepping, and the endless orbits of the post.
Bridget lifted her gagged, sweaty, and flushed face to
find Lydia closing and locking the panel of the exercise
machine's control panel. Obviously, she'd turned the damn
thing off... finally.
Smiling a friendly (meaning infuriating) smile, Lydia
stepped forward, released the clips of the chains linking
Bridget to the end of the crossbeam, clipped the rope lead to
the front of her harness, as before, and led the wet, stumbling
pony towards the stable.
"Time for you to cool off, Freckles," Lydia purred.
Bridget was too tired and her feet too sore for a display of
anger, but she was not feeling especially cooperative. I
am not 'Freckles!' she fumed, silently.
Lydia led her new charge into a side room and Bridget found
herself staring at a curious piece of... furniture? A
vertical timber post was embedded in the floor and solidly
attached to the rafters overhead. Bolted to the post was a
simple wooden seat at the appropriate height, and in front of
post and seat was a set of stocks: thick, horizontal timber
planks between two short posts with a pair of padded openings
about two feet apart and two feet off the floor.
Lydia ignored Bridget's gagged inquiry as she dragged her
forward and forced her to sit on the wooden seat with her back
against the post. The stable mistress then released the
hefty, spring-loaded clamp securing the stocks and lifted the
top plank up and back on its heavy-duty hinge. Next, she
went to a nearby wooden rack holding leather straps and coils of
rope and returned with two wide straps and two short lengths of
Bridget squirmed and complained—"Nrrrf!"—but couldn't prevent
Lydia from strapping her to the post. One strap went
across her throat, and the other around her corseted and
harnessed waist. The neck strap pinned her head back but
wasn't especially tight. The waist strap, on the other
hand, was just as tight as the rest of the leather system
hugging her sweaty, spandex-clad body.
Lydia then knelt, looped a length of rope around the ankle of
her right boot, then tied the end of the rope to the post,
somewhere under the seat. Bridget realized the ankle rope
was to prevent her from kicking... not that she wasn't both too
exhausted and too intelligent to try kicking the smiling
Meanwhile, Lydia shifted to the left side and began unlacing
Bridget's left boot. Bridget watched the process with
interest. Finally getting out of the boots was a good
thing... she hoped. The stocks were waiting, and what
Lydia was doing was obvious. Bridget's feet were destined
for the stocks! She'd known that from the instant they
entered the room. She considered trying to fight, but what
was the point? Obviously, Lydia knew what she was
doing. Bridget was solidly strapped to the post and her
right foot was tethered. At least I'm losing the boots,
she thought with a gagged sigh.
The left boot slithered free from Bridget's foot—which felt very
good—then Lydia tightened a rope noose around Bridget's ankle,
placed her foot in the left half-opening in the stocks, and tied
the rope around the base of the stock's left post.
Bridget's thick and now somewhat damp wool sock remained in
While Lydia shifted sides and started unlacing Bridget's right
boot, the prisoner-of-the-post visually examined the
stocks. The padding under her left ankle and the stock's
other openings appeared to be generous strips of fleece-covered
hide, held in place with neat rows of brass tacks. It felt
good to finally be able to flex her sock-covered foot.
Then, Bridget's right foot was in the right opening, Lydia
lowered and secured the top half of the stocks, and both feet
were imprisoned in fleece-padded wood for the duration... but
the duration of what?
Lydia loosened the nooses still around Bridget's feet, coiled
and returned the ropes to the rack, then exited the room.
Finally alone, Bridget thought. Now's my
chance! Chance to do what, I have no idea.
I think I'm losing it.
Lydia returned almost immediately, and in her hand was a
sloshing, translucent plastic bottle with a curved plastic straw
protruding from its cap. "This is ice-water," she
announced, "so we'll take it slow." Lydia then inserted
the tip of the straw in the saliva-dripping corner of Bridget's
ball-gagged mouth, and gave the bottle a squeeze.
Glorious, cold wetness invaded Bridget's rubber-plugged
mouth! Squeeze followed squeeze, with seconds between,
until something like a pint of clear, icy water had found its
way down Bridget's throat. Obviously, Bridget would just
as soon have her gag removed so she could drink properly, but
the water was most welcome, nonetheless. And Lydia
had once again demonstrated her expertise. Bridget had
never even come close to choking.
"Now," Lydia said as she turned and strolled to the open door,
"rest for a while. I'll be back."
Belatedly, Bridget lodged a complaint—"Nrrrk!"—but the Stable
Mistress was already gone. Rest? How the hell am
I supposed to 'rest?' She heaved a sigh and let her
body go limp in her bonds, relaxing as best she could. She
was still sweaty, from her still flushed and possibly slightly
sunburned face to her sock-covered toes, but the air in the
stable was hot, or at least hot enough that she wasn't getting a
chill. At least I'm not sweating any new sweat,
Bridget thought... and closed her eyes.
Seconds passed... and became a minute.
Just as Bridget was starting to drift off to sleep, she became
aware of a quiet noise... clomping hooves... accompanied by
normal, meaning human footsteps... as well as the
tinkling of... ponygirl harnesses?
Bridget opened her eyes—and they widened in renewed amazement.
Eve was entering the room, and at the ends of a pair of rope
leads were the two brunette ponygirls Bridget had seen
earlier. They were no longer pulling the sulky, of course,
but their harnesses and boots were unchanged. However, the
reins and rubber-clad bits formerly attached to their bridles
were gone, replaced by rubber-clad rings that propped the
ponygirl's mouths wide open. Also, their tan, smooth,
naked skins glistened with sweat, like Bridget's face.
Apparently, Eve had given them quite a workout.
"There's my pretty Freckles," Eve cooed, a smile curling
her lips and dimpling her cheeks. "Did you enjoy your
first time going walkies?"
Bridget was busy gazing at the fit, athletic, and helplessly
restrained bodies of the two flesh-and-blood (and sweaty)
ponygirls, but she spared a few seconds to send a dozen or so
visual daggers speeding in Eve's direction.
Blithely ignoring Bridget's hostility, Eve led the two ponygirls
forward, then pointed at the floor in front of the stocks and
Bridget's wool-clad feet. The ponygirls knelt on the hard
floor, then Eve looped and hitched the ends of their leads
around the stock's right and left posts. She then stood
between the kneeling ponies and placed her gloved hands atop
their harnessed heads.
"Freckles," Eve purred, "I'd like you to meet Scheherazade and
Bridget stared in amazement. "Scheherazade" was on her
left, and had brown eyes. "Prancine" was on her right, and
her eyes were blue-green, more or less a blend of Bridget's
green and Eve's ice-blue. Pony names, Bridget
thought, just like I now have a pony name.
Eve leaned down and pulled the wool socks from Bridget's feet.
Bridget wiggled her toes. Her feet were damp and sweaty,
and now that the socks were gone, they tingled and began to
Eve stepped to the rack of straps and ropes and returned with a
riding crop. She used it to deliver a businesslike whack
to her left palm, smiled at Scheherazade and Prancine, and the
ponygirls lifted their harnessed and ring-gagged heads and gazed
up at their smiling Mistress in response.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" Eve chuckled, then used the
crop to point to Bridget's (Freckle's) feet. "Welcome your
Scheherazade and Prancine locked eyes with Freckles (Bridget),
then leaned forward, extended their tongues through their
ring-gags, and began licking Bridget's toes and feet!
Bridget squirmed and fought her bonds. She also did her
best to wiggle her toes, flex her imprisoned feet, and evade the
ponygirl's slobbering tongues, but with very limited
Eve gave first Scheherazade's right butt-cheek and then
Prancine's left butt cheek a very solid whack with the
crop. "More enthusiasm!" the evilly smiling blonde
Bridget continued struggling and twisting against the post,
wiggling her toes, and flexing her feet, to no avail, and the
highly unconventional foot-bath continued.
Oddly, Bridget found her feet were not being tickled...
much. Given the nonstop oddity of virtually everything
that had happened since breakfast, it was a small thing, but
there it was. The licking and slobbering was unpleasant,
but her feet didn't tickle, much. They did, however, tingle
in response to the wet, pink, sliding tongues.
Scheherazade and Prancine continued sucking and licking
Bridget's toes, including the areas between, as well as sliding
their tongues across her soles, the tops of her feet, and her
heels. The ring-gags were putting something of a cramp in
their styles, but they were making up for it with
enthusiasm. Their motivation was Eve's riding crop, of
course. Additional punishment had not yet been applied,
but the threat was ever present.
Bridget squirmed in her bonds, continued wiggling her toes and
flexing her ankles, and watched her new "sisters" bobbing heads
and swaying ponytails. Despite the rings propping open
their mouths and the headstalls or bridles or whatever they
called the damn things caging their heads, Bridget could tell
the ponygirls were very beautiful, as in actress or
model beautiful. And as she'd noted earlier, they were in
very good shape. Their physiques were not only athletic,
but highly feminine. Both had nice breasts, not overly
large or bulbous, but nice. At the moment, with their
owners kneeling, leaning forward, and doing their best to lick
and suck Bridget's feet, the breasts in question were
more-or-less hanging, as well as swaying and bobbing, but they
were unmistakably nice. Finally, and also as earlier
noted, the ponygirls had exquisite tans. Apparently, they
spent a lot of time outdoors.
"And what do you think you're doing?" a now familiar and
somewhat husky voice demanded.
Eve, Scheherazade, Prancine, and Bridget stopped what they were
doing—gloating, slobbering, slobbering, and squirming,
respectively—and turned to find Lydia standing in the doorway,
and the Stable Mistress was not happy. "I've told
you a thousand times," Lydia said, apparently addressing
Eve. "Ponies will not be put away wet at Wilkinson
"I'm hardly putting them away," Eve chuckled, "wet or
otherwise... not yet."
"You're letting them get stiff," Lydia countered, "and in the
case of Freckles, she's untrained, remember? She might
Eve shrugged. "I don't think so. In any case—"
"In any case," Lydia interrupted, pointing at Bridget, "you're
supposed to be cleaning and massaging that one's
feet." She then indicated Scheherazade and Prancine.
"And those two should be in the Wet Room, waiting for me to give
them their showers and change their tack. Lydia favored
her employer with an even stare. "You might insist on
handling Freckles all by yourself, but you'll do so following my
guidelines and standards. Your sister might have put you
in charge of the ranch, but remember who's in charge of the
Eve favored Lydia with a rather unctuous smile. "Let's not
argue in front of the animals, shall we?"
Lydia rolled her eyes, stepped forward, and released
Scheherazade and Prancine's rope leads from the base of the
stocks. The ponygirls climbed to their booted feet with
surprising grace, then obediently (and involuntarily) followed
Lydia from the room.
Eve waited until the sound of Lydia's cowgirl boots and the
ponies' pony-boots had faded, then strolled to the door and
eased it closed. She then turned and smiled at Bridget.
Bridget watched as Eve reached into the pocket of her jodhpurs,
pulled out a folded white handkerchief and a small glass vial.
"Now," Eve said as she unscrewed the vial and dumped its clear,
fluid contents into the handkerchief, "I can't indulge myself
like this too often. Lydia says it would have long
term, deleterious effects on your liver and kidney functions;
however, I find myself somewhat fatigued after my exhilarating
sulky ride around the perimeter trail and not in the
mood for a wrestling match, so..."
Bridget squirmed in her bonds as Eve sauntered forward and
firmly pressed the folded cloth against her ball-gagged face,
covering her nose and mouth! "Mrrrpfh!" Chloroform?
It had been a few years, but Bridget thought she recognized the
acrid smell from one of the labs of the chemistry-for-non-majors
survey course she'd taken for science credit at Lewis &
Clark! If the chemical soaking the hankie wasn't
chloroform, it was something similar! "Nrrr!"
Belatedly, she tried holding her breath, but the horrid vapors
had already invaded her sinuses. She wiggled and fought
her inescapable restraints, but—
Bridget's eyes rolled up in her head... then closed.
Smiling her evil, gloating smile, Eve continued holding the
cloth in place for several seconds... then tossed it away and
began combing her fingers through Bridget's hair, straightening
the hang of her ginger pageboy. "So very pretty," she
sighed. "Freckles is such a pretty, pretty pony."
|A Pony Named Freckles
her eyes—then closed them, immediately. A bright light was
shining in her face. She had a bit of a headache, but it
wasn't bad, and it was fading, rapidly. This was just as
well, as Bridget was discovering that she had much more serious
problems than throbbing temples.
For one thing, Bridget was naked, completely naked, and
semi-reclined on her back on some sort of hard surface with her
arms raised with her hands even with her head to either
side. Her wrists were imprisoned in some sort of padded
clamps. Also, her knees were bent, her legs splayed, and
her ankles also locked in padded clamps. She opened her
eyes, blinked as they adjusted to the glare, and confirmed her
condition. She was, indeed naked, and the surface was
something like an examining table—a gynecologist's
examining table, with stirrups and leg troughs. It was
stainless steel, and without any sort of padding. Large
hand-wheels to either side hinted that parts of the table were
adjustable in some manner.
The clamps around her wrists and ankles were also stainless
steel, and were lined with thick layers of black rubber.
Bridget squirmed and tugged on the wrist and ankle clamps, they
were thick and wide and followed the curves of the relevant
anatomy. She had to admit she was more-or-less
comfortable, but the table could have used a little padding.
Oh by the way, her gag had been changed. The ball-gag had
been replaced by a different, slightly smaller ball, but instead
of a strap, it was held in place by a wide strip of some sort of
tape. A mirror was unavailable for a detailed analysis,
but looking down her nose, she could just see the end of a
couple of inches of some sort of clear tubing protruding from
between her lips and piercing the tape. She tried rolling
her tongue, with severely limited success, but noted the end of
the tube moved in concert with the ball filling her mouth.
She surmised the two were attached.
Her skin was more or less intact, what she could see of
it. The now absent corset, harness, crotch-piece, and
pony-boots had left a few marks, but there was no bruising or
welts and the reddish stripes seemed to be fading. Bridget
tugged on her bonds, again, but was just as helpless as
before. She was nowhere near as elaborately bound, but was
just as helpless.
"Good, you're awake."
Bridget turned her head and watched Eve stroll into the
light. Obviously, she'd been there all along, but the
glaring fixture directly overhead seemed to be the only light
and the rest of the room was more-or-less cloaked in
darkness. Eve was dressed as before: brown riding boots,
tan jodhpurs, and a white blouse. Bridget glared at her
captor—and there was no other way she could characterize Eve
Wilkinson. Ponygirl nonsense aside, Bridget had been
kidnapped. She was a prisoner. "Mrrrpfh!"
Ignoring Bridget's outburst, Eve unbuttoned and removed her
blouse, then tossed it aside. She wasn't wearing a
bra. The smiling blonde then donned a full-length, black,
rubberized apron, dropping it over her head and tying its
waist-strings behind her back. Her arms and shoulders were
bare, except for the apron's spaghetti-thin shoulder-straps, her
breasts bulged against the glistening fabric, and her sides (and
a little side-boob) were on display. She strolled to the
table and placed her right hand on Bridget's left thigh.
"Let's get you cleaned up, shall we?" Eve purred, then turned
and strolled into the shadows.
Bridget tugged on her bonds, again. She heard a metallic
creak, followed by a gurgling sound, and Eve returned, holding a
nozzle at the end of a long, trailing rubber hose.
"Nrrrf!" Bridget could do nothing to prevent Eve from
triggering the nozzle. "MRRRRF!" A stinging spray of
cold water began playing up and down Bridget's wiggling, captive
form. "Nrrrrr!" Soon, she was drenched from head to
toe, including, of course, her now sopping hair.
The stream of water stopped, but now Eve had a bucket of warm,
soapy water and a large sponge and was scrubbing Bridget's
shivering, dripping wet body. Lucky for Bridget, the soap
was of the gentle, "no more tears" variety, because Eve was very
thorough. Every square inch of Bridget's pale, shivering,
squirming body not directly resting on the steel table and in
the troughs was visited by the soapy sponge.
"Mrrrrf!" Bridget complained. She conceded that given her
post-exercise, somewhat funky condition, the sponge bath might
be necessary, but it was also humiliating. "MRRF!"
The hose was back, and now Eve was using it to rinse off the
Dripping wet and clean, Bridget tugged on her bonds in
frustration. Then, her eyes widened in apprehension.
Eve had pushed a stainless steel cart into the light, and on it
were a steel basin half-filled with sloshing water, a shining
steel safety razor, and a can of mentholated shaving cream!
"Nrrrr." It wasn't a gagged shout. Bridget was
becoming slightly inured to being toyed with by Eve. She
didn't like it, and at some point in the future there would be hell
to pay, but right now it was all getting to be just too much...
too much for her to keep wasting her energy with useless
struggling, and too much for pointless gagged protests.
To make a long, humiliating story short, Eve applied lather and
carefully, gently shaved both of Bridget's armpits and the full
lengths of both of her legs. She also used delicate
strokes of the razor to neatly define the margins of Bridget's
ginger pubic bush.
A final rinse from the hose followed, and now Bridget was clean,
freshly shaved, and helpless—and she became even more
helpless as Eve tightened rubber straps across her upper arms,
thighs, and below her knees, further pinning her to the table
and her legs in the troughs.
Next, Eve hung what appeared to be an inverted glass bottle of
some sort of green liquid from a hook overhead. Bridget
could see moisture beaded on the sides of the bottle and
surmised its contents were cold. Eve then attached one end
of a long, thin, clear length of flexible tubing to the tube
protruding from Bridget's tape-gag, and the other to the cap of
the inverted bottle. It was an I.V. drip arrangement, the
kind used to deliver drugs to hospital patients, only this time,
it would be used to deliver liquid to Bridget's sealed mouth.
"The ball in your mouth has about a dozen small holes," Eve
explained as she released a plastic clamp, "and I've set the
drip rate to a mere trickle, so enjoy your hydration." She
tapped the bottle. "Lemon-lime! Yum!"
Bridget watched the green fluid slowly march down the tube and
ever closer to her taped mouth—"Mrrrpfh!"—then she flinched when
Eve gently cupped her right breast and gave it a squeeze.
"You're very beautiful, Freckles," Eve sighed. "Your
nipples, copper-red bush, and pretty pussy... very
beautiful. I'm entirely pleased. You're going to
make a magnificent pony, once you're properly trained."
She continued her gentle kneading of Bridget's breast.
"The pageboy will have to go, of course, but by the time Lydia
has you broken to the harness and in good condition, it will all
have grown long enough for a proper ponytail, bangs
included. And a year from now... you'll be perfect."
"Mrrrk?" A year from now? A YEAR from now?
"Mrrrrpfh!" Bridget shook her head in violent
negation. Her tousled hair was too wet to sway in
sympathy, but it did move, at least a little.
Eve ignored her pony's reaction. "You'll be trained as a
working pony, of course," she continued, "but you're so
beautiful and exotic, I think I'll also make you a dressage
pony, my first dressage pony. Pretty rings and
delicate bells for your nipples and labia, special training so
you can high-step and do tricks in harness... My friends
will be so jealous. None of them have a strawberry-roan
Bridget stared at Eve in horror. Rings?
Bells? She's crazy!
"Now," Eve purred, releasing Bridget's breast, "you have a nice
rest. When I get back, I'll give you an enema to get you
clean, inside and out, then your training will really
Bridget tugged on her bonds and mewled through her gag.
The liquid had reached her mouth, and it was, indeed, cool and
lemon-lime, but she had other concerns. Enema?
Eve turned and stepped into the darkness. There was a
pause... then the overhead lights winked off and the darkness
"Nrrrrrrrrrrk!" Bridget's heart was hammering and her
naked breasts heaving as she panted through flaring
nostrils. This was no longer a tasteless practical joke
taken too far. Bridget had been kidnapped, for real!
And she was at the mercy of a madwoman!
|A Pony Named