A Pony Named Freckles
A
              Pony Named Freckles


by Van © 2016


Chapter 7


DRAMATIS PERSONÆ


OUR STORY CONTINUES

The next two weeks—at least two weeks, although Bridget wasn't sure of the exact number of days since her capture—settled into something of a routine.

At night, Bridget was always restrained in some manner, usually spreadeagled on her stomach or back on a soft mattress, and always with plenty of room for writhing and squirming.  Mistress explained that it was "so Freckles can get a good night's sleep."

During the day, Bridget was "dressed" in leather harnesses, all similar but with minor differences in design.  They all incorporated mittens to incapacitate her fingers and hands and a leather flap, sheath, or array of straps to trap her arms behind her back, as well as straps to pin her upper arms to her sides.  All were inescapable, but well designed in that she could exercise for extended periods without the various straps chaffing and/or raising blisters---and exercise she did.  Freckles got very familiar with the dust of the stable's circular exercise yard and the droning, grinding hum of the pony walking machine.

There were recurring intervals of idleness, during which Bridget had nothing better to do than ponder methods of escape.  But so far, Eve was being very careful and had given her zero opportunities to mount a credible resistance or wiggle out of her restraints, much less regain her freedom.

For one thing, there was the collar, and Bridget quickly found an opportunity to convince herself that the "training collar" would not allow her to whisper.  Any attempt on her part to speak, no matter how quietly, was punished by a painful electric shock.  Adding insult to injury, or more correctly, humiliation to torture, "Mistress" Eve made it clear that she was very much amused by Bridget's early attempts to silently mouth pleas for her freedom.  The worst thing was that Bridget knew she was being conditioned to act the part of a mute, and despite her fervent resolve to ignore the process, it was happening anyway.

Eve had also made it clear that she appreciated Bridget giving her additional excuses to be cruel.  The first several days, Eve used any overt resistance on "Freckles" part as a reason to whip her with a riding crop or use the remote to trigger her collar on its lowest setting.  Not only was the "pony" helpless and not in control of her basic bodily functions, much less her fate, but Bridget lived under the constant threat of additional torments for supposed "disobedience," which meant acting like a human.

As for the routine, the exact timing varied, but there were morning and afternoon exercise periods.  That meant either walking in harness and boots around the circular equestrian exercise track, or trudging on the rolling treadmill of a conventional, gym-style running machine.  In addition to being helpless, restrained, and tottering on her toes, there was always a bit strapped in her mouth.  Bridget walked and walked and walked... until her increasingly freckled skin glistened with sweat.  The circular track was in full sun, of course, while the treadmill was inside a barn-like "gym" with other exercise equipment, but Bridget was still getting a lot of sun, a lot more than she'd been used to.

Regular massage sessions were another part of the routine.  After every exercise session, Bridget's boots were removed and Eve expertly massaged her aching feet with deep, gentle pressure.  That was welcome, and dare she even think it, pleasurable.  And the same went for the full-body massages Bridget received over virtually every square inch of her body.  Again, Bridget was always restrained and unable to resist.  The foot-massages were delivered with her ankles locked in padded stocks, while the body-massages happened on a padded table with a plethora of adjustable, medical-style straps and cuffs.

Meals usually took the form of porridge or oatmeal or some other semi-fluid sustenance delivered to Bridget's mouth either by spoon or with what amounted to a very large syringe, at Mistress Eve's whim.  There were also smoothies, which were even more fluid.  They were also cool, and after a grueling exercise session, refreshing.  Again, at Eve's whim, sometimes Bridget was ring-gagged during these humiliating meals, and sometimes she wasn't gagged at all.  In any case, accepting nourishment spoon by spoon or injected glob by injected glob, was humiliating.

Once in a while, on a totally unpredictable and infrequent basis, Bridget was fed "finger-food" in the form of tiny sandwiches or pastry-wraps.  They were savory, delicious, and a welcome break from the gloppy meal routine, but the lift to her spirits when Bridget realized she was going to enjoy something she could actually chew was always short lived.

In terms of hygiene, Eve deployed a jaw-stretching medical clamp and brushed her pony's teeth at least once a day.  And as to her other hygienic needs, Eve ordered her to empty her bladder on a regular basis, either into a bedpan or a steel commode in a tiled "bathroom stall."  However, Bridget was not allowed to voluntarily empty her bowels.  She endured a daily enema as part of her morning routine.  Bathing took the form of being doused with a hose, scrubbed with a soapy brush, doused again, then dried with a towel.

Anger, carefully repressed anger.  Humiliation, regular humiliations she was powerless to resist or even protest.  Constant restraint.  Constant helplessness.  Day followed day.

On occasion, as she was exercising or standing in harness, chained to a post or tethered to a ring set in the side of one of the stable buildings, Bridget saw Lydia, Maya, or one or both of her "fellow ponies," but they were always at a distance.  They never came close and never gave her more that a passing glance.  Mistress was Bridget's only human contact.

There was one final element of Bridget's routine: forced orgasms.

At least once a day, sometimes twice, Eve used her hands and/or one of several different styles of vibrator to caress and tease Bridget's pussy.  Sometimes it was while she was still harnessed and sweaty from exercise, sometimes while she was strapped to the gynecological frame, sometimes while strapped to the massage table, and sometimes while in a standing spread-eagle with her arms and legs flung wide and her wrists and ankles locked in padded leather cuffs.

On one occasion, Bridget was harnessed, tape-gagged, blindfolded, and led to the main house and what she suspected was Eve's bedroom.  Yet another forced orgasm followed, this time on a soft, luxuriant bed.  And afterwards, Eve cuddled her still helpless body... all night.

And as for her nipples, one day—about a week into her captivity—Eve restrained Bridget on the gynecological table, peeled off the band-aids, cleaned her nipples and breasts with a soapy cloth, then dried them with a towel.  Next, she unscrewed and gently removed the posts piercing Bridget's nipples, then replaced them with open steel rings, each about an inch in diameter.

Bridget watched as Eve injected a drop of some sort of fluid into the cavity in a tiny, hollow steel sphere, positioned the sphere in the gap between the two halves of the ring in her right nipple, then used a pair of specialized pliers to close the ring.  All the while smiling her dimpled, maniacal smile, Eve held the pliers closed for a full minute... then released the pressure and repeated the operation on Bridget's left nipple.

"There," Eve purred as she put away her tools, "all done."  She smiled down at Bridget, then cupped her pony's breasts and gave them a gentle squeeze.  "Freckles has pretty new rings," she sighed.  "I hope you like them, because they can't be removed without surgery."  She continued kneading Bridget's breasts.  "At least, that's what the manufacturer says in their advertising brochure.  Hardened steel alloy... one of the strongest epoxies known to industry... permanent.  Nothing but the best for my Freckles."

Bridget's heart was pounding and her eyes were wet with tears, but she said—or tried to say—nothing.  The insidious shock-collar was still in place, and the conditioning it imposed was already taking hold.

"Now," Eve continued, "Mistress doesn't want you to play with your pretty new rings, not for at least another week."  She released Bridget's breasts, leaned down, and kissed Bridget's trembling lips.  "Of course, Mistress will help with that.  I'll make sure my Freckles can't play with her pretty new rings."

With that, Eve turned and left the chamber, closing and locking the door behind her.

The tears began to flow.  Bridget couldn't help it.  She was helpless.  Escape was impossible.  She imagined this was how a newly captured centaur felt in one of her novels.  A prisoner of the Slaver's Guild... helpless... under constant restraint and being trained and conditioned.  "Mistress" Eve might be a slaver's guild of one, but she hadn't made any mistakes and she was in control, in control of Bridget, and in control of "Freckles."

Bridget tugged on her inescapable bonds and continued to weep.

Carrot or Crop
Carrot or Crop
An impression of Freckles' plight by one of my favorite artists.  Thanks Jeff!
And no, Bryce Dallas Howard did not pose for this drawing.
(The model was Claire Dearing, an unemployed theme park manager.)

A Pony Named Freckles
Chapter 7
It was a day like any other... any other since Bridget's capture, that is.  Also, it was three days after she'd received her "pretty new rings," but Bridget still didn't know the total number of days that had elapsed since her arrival at Wilkinson Ranch.

Breakfast was oatmeal, spooned into Bridget's pouting mouth by a smiling Eve.

Morning exercise happened in the circular exercise yard.

Lunch was a refreshing smoothie.

Afternoon exercise was her first introduction to pulling a cart, in this case a simple garden-cart for hauling supplies.  It turned out Bridget's "custom training harness"—the web of brown leather straps and bronze rings that hugged her torso, pinned her upper arms to her sides, and restrained her folded arms, wrists, and mitten-encased hands behind her back—was designed for harnessing its wearer to a cart, in addition to rendering her a helpless captive.  Previously unused rings on the harness' shoulder-straps and waist-belt were clipped to straps attached to the long, curved shafts on either side of the cart, Mistress made careful adjustments, and Bridget was ready to go.

The buggy-whip in Mistress' right hand snapped (on empty air, thankfully), with her left hand she gave the reins trailing from the bit of Bridget's headstall a shake, and "Freckles" took a tentative step.  The cart straps creaked as Bridget leaned forward and took the load, the cart's wheels began to turn, and they were off.  Mistress walked beside the cart, leading Freckles around and around a trail that circumnavigated the house, the stable buildings, and the swimming pool.  Bridget had to admit that the cart and harness were a well-integrated system.  She was having no difficulty pulling the empty cart.  The straps evenly distributed the minimal load across her upper body.

As she plodded along, Bridget noted Maya lounging in a poolside lounge chair, wearing a bikini and sunglasses and reading a book... but there was no sign of Lydia or the two brunette ponies.  Maya's brown, gleaming, lotion-slathered body was magnificent (in Bridget's humble opinion), but she was ignoring Mistress, Bridget, and the cart.

Bridget's daily forced orgasm happened at "bedtime."  Bridget had been spreadeagled on her back on a mattress in an otherwise empty stall in the main barn.  Her restraints were padded leather wrist- and ankle-cuffs with padlocked buckles attached to lengths of shining steel chain that were in turn attached to heavy eye-bolts in the stall's four corners.  She had about three inches of slack for each limb, and that was it.  The shock-collar was padlocked around her throat, as always, ready to punish any attempt on her part to speak.

Eve had run her hands over Bridget's writhing body... gently tugging on her nipple-rings as the captive tugged on her bonds... then slowly, skillfully teased her labia with a buzzing vibrator.

Bridget might be struggling, but she wasn't really trying to evade the throbbing wand in Eve's hand.  This was the highlight of her day.  She was getting used to her daily morning and afternoon exercise sessions, her feet were adapting to her "pony-boots," and she had come to tolerate the "pony-harness."  She hated her "Mistress," and hated the way she was being used as Eve's livestock.  The foot and full-body massages were therapeutic, but she refused to consider Eve running her oily hands over her helplessly restrained body as pleasure.  The orgasms, on the other hand...

Finally, inevitably, Bridget closed her eyes, bit back the scream that would trigger a punishing shock from her collar... and her body went rigid as waves of pure pleasure rippled through her pussy and up her spine.

And then... it was over.... until next time.  Still smiling her evil, gloating smile, Eve left the stall, slid the door closed, engaged its heavy latch, and strolled away.

Bridget panted, her ringed breasts heaving, and basked in the afterglow of the orgasm.  A long night of restraint and hopelessness lay ahead... another endless wait until dawn... followed by the start of yet another day of humiliating captivity.  Bridget closed her eyes... waiting for the blessed oblivion of sleep.

"Is she gone?"

Bridget opened her eyes and lifted her head.  The two brunette ponies—her fellow ponies—were on the far side of the stall door, their hands griping the bars of the window set in the upper panel, on either side of their tan, beautiful faces.  It was the closest the fit, athletic, gorgeous ponies—meaning women—had come to Bridget during her captivity.  Bridget wanted to ask them for help; but, as always, the conditioning imposed by the shock-collar padlocked around her neck kept her silent.

"Well?" the brown-eyed pony asked her blue-eyed companion.

"I think so," the blue-eyed pony said.  "Go check again."

"You go check."

"Okay."

The blue-eyed pony scampered away... then the brown-eyed pony lifted the latch and slid open the stall door.  Bridget noted that her visitor was completely naked... and gorgeous!

Bridget watched as the brown-haired beauty entered the stall, gracefully strolled to the mattress, and smiled down at her.  "Hi," the brunette said.

The blue-eyed pony returned, entered the stall, and hurried over to stand next to her companion.  She was also naked... and gorgeous.  "She's gone.  She's probably gonna take a swim before bed.  She usually does on a day like this.  Anyway, she won't be back."

"You hope," the brown-eyed pony said with a dimpled smile.

"We hope," the blue-eyed pony agreed.

The visitors knelt in unison, their eyes on Bridget's spreadeagled, helpless body.

"Freckles," brown-eyes noted.

"Millions of freckles," blue-eyes purred.

"And look at her tan-lines," brown-eyes added.  "Freckle-lines?"

"Tan-lines, freckle-lines, whatever."

Brown-eye's dimpled smile widened.  "I know, 'harness-lines.'  More descriptive."

"Very descriptive," blue-eyes agreed.

Brown-eyes sighed.  "And I love her ginger hair... and green-eyes... and ginger bush."

Both ponies reached out and began gently running their hands over Bridget's torso.

Bridget squirmed and tugged on her bonds... and noted that her fellow-ponies—she meant fellow-captives—didn't have any tan-lines, or harness-lines, or whatever.  They had deep, rich, uniform tans.  Apparently, they spent more time in the sunshine out of harness than in... unlike Bridget.

"I'm Scheherazade," the brown-eyed pony said.

"And I'm Prancine," blue-eyes added.

'Scheherazade' and 'Prancine,' Bridget thought.  And I'm 'Freckles.'

"I like her nipple-rings," Scheherazade told her companion.

"You should ask Mistress for a pair," Prancine chuckled.

"I will if you will," Scheherazade responded with a wry smile.

"I'll pass," Prancine purred.

Bridget continued wiggling and writhing under her fellow pony's continuing massage.  They're beautiful, she thought.

"I think her muscle tone is coming along nicely," Scheherazade said.  "Don't you think?"

"How the hell would you know?" Prancine purred.  "Does Mistress let you run your hands over Freckles while I'm otherwise occupied?"

"No," Scheherazade admitted, "but how could she not be in better shape?"

"Point taken."

Bridget continued writhing.  Her fellow-pony's hands felt good.  But more than that, she was grateful for human contact from someone other than Mistress Eve... even if the brunette beauties were, at the very least, passively complicit in her captivity.

"Ask the question," Prancine said to Scheherazade.

Scheherazade continued sliding her hands over Bridget's squirming body.  "So soon?"

Prancine rolled her eyes.  "Ask the question."

Scheherazade directed her dimpled smile to Bridget.  "So... Freckles,"  She cupped Bridget's breasts and gave them a gentle squeeze.  "Tell the truth.  Do you want to be here?  Do you truly want to be Mistress Eve's pony?"

Bridget blinked in surprise, then shook her head.

"She's playacting," Prancine purred.

"Nurk!"  Despite her conditioning, Bridget had tried to shout "No!" and had been punished for her effort.  Blinking back tears, she focused on Prancine and frantically shook her head.

"Okay, okay," Prancine said with a reassuring smile.  "We had to be sure.  We believe you."

"W
e believe you," Scheherazade nodded.  Her hands were still kneading Bridget's freckled breasts.

"Ahem."

All three ponies turned or lifted their heads and gazed at the open stall door.

"Oh shit!" Scheherazade and Prancine gasped in unison.

Lydia was standing in the doorway, dressed in her usual cowboy boots, jeans, and Western blouse.  From her expression, it was very clear that the Stable Mistress was not happy.   She took a step back and pointed to her right.

Scheherazade and Prancine leaped to their feet, padded from the stall, and disappeared in the direction Lydia had indicated.

Still frowning, Lydia slid the stable door closed, engaged the latch, then followed the naked ponies... and Bridget was alone... again.

I hope they'll be okay, Bridget thought as she tugged on her bonds in frustration.  She assumed her fellow ponies would be punished, but she hoped it wouldn't be too bad.  Bridget heaved a frustrated sigh and relaxed in her bonds.  Why she should care about what happened to Scheherazade and Prancine, she wasn't sure.  The ponies were complicit in her kidnapping, or at least were a part of the bizarre situation she found herself in, but they were prisoners, like Bridget... at least some of the time... maybe.

Bridget sighed, again.  This place is playing with my head, she realized, just like her fellow ponies were just playing with my body.  I have to escape, she silently resolved, and at the very least, I have to see that Scheherazade and Prancine are given the choice of escaping with me.

Exactly how she was going to make any of that happen... Bridget had no idea.
A Pony Named Freckles
Chapter 7
Prancine was naked (of course) and hogtied on the carpet of Lydia's bedroom.  That is, her wrists were bound behind her back, then lashed to her crossed ankles.  Frog-tie ropes lashed her thighs to her lower legs, a rope-harness pinned her arms to her sides, and additional ropes pulled her back into a spine-bending arc, leaving her balanced on her taut tummy with her thighs and breasts off the carpet.  A trained, disciplined pony would never complain or protest such treatment, but in this case it was an entirely moot point.  Two pairs of Lydia's dirty panties were stuffed in Prancine's mouth and held there by a tight cleave-gag of one of Lydia's narrowly folded bandannas.

"Really, Mistress," Scheherazade said as ropes tightened around her naked and already partially restrained body.  "She doesn't want to be here.  She doesn't want to be a pony."

"Quiet," Lydia huffed as she selected another coil of rope and began binding Scheherazade's ankles.

"You have to believe me, Mistress," Scheherazade continued.  She was on her stomach with her wrists and upper body already bound, matching Prancine's bonds strand-for-strand.  She wasn't balanced on her tummy, not yet, but she knew that was coming.

"I said be quiet," Lydia growled as she reached for more rope, folded Scheherazade's legs back, and lashed her bound wrists to her bound ankles..

"It's not right," Scheherazade huffed.  "Poor Freckles.  It's not ri—urrrf!"

Lydia had stuffed a pair of panties into Scheherazade's mouth... followed by a second pair... and now was tying a bandanna as a cleave-gag.  "There," she said as she cinched the bandanna and tied a knot at the nape of Scheherazade's neck, under her tousled brown hair.  "Sorry I'm out of dirty panties," she purred.  "We'll have to make do with clean panties."

Scheherazade rolled her eyes as additional ropes tightened around her folded legs, then grunted in complaint as her hogtie became a stringent hogtie and her breasts and thighs left the carpet.  Her bonds were now a complete match for Prancine's, rope-for-rope and gag-for-gag.

Lydia stood, repositioned herself so both bound ponies could see the toes of her cowgirl-boots, then lift their chins and gaze into her frowning face.  "It is not a pony's place to question her mistress," she lectured, shaking her right index finger at the helpless, naked ponies.  "I'm afraid I have no choice but to punish you severely."  Her frown softened into a coy smile.  "Vibrators will be involved."  The Stable Mistress then turned and strolled from her bedroom.  "But first!" she called back over her shoulder as she crossed the threshold, "I have a phone call to make."

Scheherazade and Prancine locked eyes and heaved sad, simultaneous sighs.

Scheherazade squirmed in her bonds.  Mistress Lydia wasn't there to witness her "courtesy struggle," but she felt the need to convince herself that she was helpless, nonetheless.  She was.  Well, the hogtied pony mused, we knew something like this was gonna happen.  Even if Lydia hadn't caught them red handed 'fraternizing' with Freckles in the barn, they knew they'd be punished when they volunteered their information by telling Lydia that their suspicions had been confirmed.

Scheherazade relaxed in her bonds, as best she could, and Prancine did the same.  Time passed.  If Lydia was, indeed, chatting on the phone, they couldn't hear her voice.

Vibrators sounds good, Scheherazade mused.  Vibrators sounds very good, and Lydia always keeps her promises.
A Pony Named Freckles
Chapter 7
The next day was day two of Freckles' introduction to the garden-cart.  Yesterday the cart had been empty, but today it held a bale of hay, a load somewhere between 70 and 100 pounds.  The weight wasn't really much of a challenge... assuming she wouldn't be required to haul it around all day.  As before, Mistress Eve walked beside the cart with the reins trailing from the bit of Bridget's headstall in her left hand.  Mistress used the wicked buggy-whip in her right hand to encourage a brisk walking pace.

One pony-boot plodded in front of the other... over and over and over.  Bridget—Freckles—had no choice but to obey.  She was helpless, and the threat of the whip was ever present.  They were on the far side of the barn, on Bridget's third circuit of the trail, when suddenly they heard the beating rotor of an approaching helicopter.  It wasn't yet in sight, but the sound was definitely getting louder.

"What now?" Eve complained, then led her pony and cart off the trail and under the shade of a big-leaf maple.

Bridget found the courage to attempt to resist.  Maybe the helicopter's pilot would see her!  Maybe he'd radio the police!  Bridget flinched.  Mistress had flicked the buggy-whip and expertly delivered a painful snap to Bridget's right nipple.  If she continued to resist she'd knew she'd get more of the same, and they were already half under the spreading branches and most of the way into the dappled shade.  Bridget took two more reluctant steps forward... and they were fully under the canopy.

They watched as the helicopter zoomed over the house, settled into a hover... then slowly descended for an apparent landing in the area beyond the pool.  Bridget didn't know much about aircraft, but she could tell the chopper was an expensive business model.  It was tastefully painted steel-gray with a pair of horizontal blue accent stripes superimposed with writing and some sort of logo, but the viewing angle was poor.

"She never tells me when she's coming," Eve complained as she tossed the end of Freckle's reins over a drooping branch and tied a tight, well-compacted hitch.  She then leaned forward and snapped a double-ended clip through rings in the knee-straps of Freckle's pony-boots, effectively hobbling the harnessed, tethered, and helpless pony.

Bridget watched as Eve stomped away.  Obviously, Mistress was displeased by the arrival of the copter, but what did it mean?  Still harnessed to the cart, all she could do was stand in place... in her hateful pony-boots... and try to ignore her aching toes and calves.

Suddenly the engine of the helicopter revved... and the aircraft lifted back into sight above the stable buildings and house, made a hovering turn, then roared overhead, flying back the way it had come.  Bridget surmised it had delivered its passenger, the mysterious "she" Eve had mentioned, and was returning to base.  The sound faded... and finally was gone.

So, Bridget wondered, is this a good thing, or a bad thing?  Only time would tell, and all she could do was wait.
A Pony Named Freckles
Chapter 7
Eve took the most direct path to the heli-pasture.  That wasn't the everyday name of the patch of grass and wildflowers beyond the pool, but it was the closest thing to a helipad to be found at Wilkinson Ranch, far and away the best place for a copter to land.  She threaded her way through the stable buildings, entered the house and made her way to the far side, then stomped out onto the pool deck and stood, hands on hips and an angry scowl on her face.

Maya passed her without saying a word.  A smile curled the cook's lips and she was carrying a very expensive, hand-stitched, overnight bag that cost more than an entire set of luggage from one of the popular brands.

"You promised you'd always warn me you were coming," Eve muttered.  She was speaking to a strikingly beautiful, fifty-something, blond woman in a custom tailored business suit.  To be specific, she was speaking to her big sister, Meredith Wilkinson, CEO of Wilkinson Group, member of the board of several important international corporations and charitable organizations, and unquestioned ruler of the Wilkinson business empire and its considerable fortune.  Lydia was at her side as they strode towards Eve and the house.

"Hello to you, too, little sister," Meredith purred, then stepped forward and kissed Eve's pouting lips.  "And you promised me you'd be a good girl.  From what I've been told, you haven't.  In fact, you've been very bad."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Eve huffed, then focused on Lydia's smiling face.  "I don't know what people have been telling you, but—"

"What people have been telling me," Meredith interrupted, "is that you've kidnapped a young woman and are training her as a pony, against her will."

Eve blinked in surprise (and alarm).  "I-I've done no such thing.  There is a new pony, but she wants to be here.  She wants to be a pony."

"I've also been told," Meredith continued, "by my corporate security division, that you tasked a team to arrange the storage of all of the 'new pony's' belongings and put her affairs in order.  In other words, to make her disappear."

Eve blinked, again.  "I... She wants to be here."

"I see," Meredith purred, then shifted her smile to Lydia.  "I assume you came prepared to carry out my orders."

Lydia smiled.  "Yes, Mistress."

Meredith's smile was unchanged.  "Well then..."

Eve looked from her sister to her Stable Mistress and back.  "What orders?  What are you going to—No!  Stop!  Stop!"

Lydia had pulled a pair of chrome-steel, hinged handcuffs from the left hip pocket of her jeans, and was proceeding to spin Eve around and cuff her wrists behind her back.

Eve struggled, kicked, and did her best to resist.  She also shouted a continuous stream of protests and threats—"Mrrrpfh!"—right up to the instant Lydia pulled a ball-gag from her right hip pocket, popped it into Eve's mouth, and secured the buckle at the nape of her neck.  She then took a firm grip on Eve's blond locks with her right hand.  "The office, Mistress?" she asked Meredith.

"The office," Meredith confirmed, then strolled towards the house.

Lydia followed with the squirming and mewling Eve in her firm control.
A Pony Named Freckles
Chapter 7
The  End


Chapter 6
Chapter 8


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