A Pony Named Freckles
A
              Pony Named Freckles


by Van © 2016


Chapter 8


DRAMATIS PERSONÆ


OUR STORY CONTINUES

Harnessed to the cart, restrained by her inescapable training-harness, and with the knee-straps of her pony-boots clipped together, Bridget languished under the shade of the maple for more than two hours... probably something closer to three hours.  This was the longest period she'd ever been required to continuously stand in one place on tiptoe with her weight balanced over the horseshoe-shaped soles of the hateful pony-boots.  Her exercise periods had been growing progressively longer, but until today the total time walking or standing had been "only" about an hour, and afterwards her boots were immediately removed and her feet given a therapeutic massage.  Obviously, the arrival of the helicopter bearing the mysterious "she," as Eve had called her, had disrupted the routine.  All Bridget could do was stand... and suffer.

By this time Bridget was used to the training-harness, and she was grateful for the shade of the maple, but with the way she was harnessed between the shafts of the cart, she didn't think there was any good way to get off her feet... and her toes.  The long, pole-like shafts severely limited her options.  She might be able to get down onto her knees, despite the double-ended clip hobbling her boot-tops, but she was sure that grinding her knees into the hard, tree root and rock strewn ground would quickly become as tiresome as standing on her toes.  And she might not be able to get back up.

There was also the issue of Eve returning and deciding to classify an attempt on her part to find some slight degree of comfort as "disobedience," an excuse to punish her with the whip and/or the shock-collar... not that Eve needed an excuse.  Eve would probably punish her no matter what she did.  It was a matter of degree.  Would the questionable comfort of kneeling in the dirt and thereby getting off her toes balance the pain of Eve's inevitable cruelty?  Somewhat to her surprise, Bridget found she considered punishment to be less of an issue than it had been in the past.  She didn't like being whipped or shocked, but it happened, and she was helpless to stop it.

The internal debate was still raging—and her toes were really beginning to complain—when Bridget noticed Lydia striding in her direction from the stables.  The Stable Mistress was dressed in her usual cowgirl outfit... and was as gorgeous as ever.  Bridget heaved a sigh and watched her approach.

Without saying a word—but with a strangely enigmatic smile curling her lips, Bridget noted—Lydia quickly and deftly released the straps harnessing Bridget to the cart, including her reins but not her bit or headstall, removed and pocketed the hobble-clip, clipped the end of a leather lead to the front ring of her harness, and led her towards the buildings, abandoning the cart in the shade.  Bridget assumed Mistress Eve was busy entertaining the mysterious "she" and as an afterthought had delegated the task of taking her to the stables and seeing to her post-exercise care.  She was wrong.

Bridget followed at the end of the lead, having no other choice, as they approached and passed through the stable complex... then continued on to the main house.  They entered through a side door and clomped on the hardwood and carpeted floor, in the case of Freckle's boots, down a hallway.  Lydia opened a door, and they arrived at what was obviously a home office, a luxurious home office.  Three things competed for Bridget's attention.  In reverse order of importance:

(1) The room was decorated much like the rest of the mansion in a combination of the Western Ranch, Hunting Lodge, and Arts & Crafts styles.  There was a small fireplace, a conversation area with the usual sofa and easy chairs, library shelves of books and knickknacks, and a large desk with a throne-like office chair.  A bank of windows afforded a pleasant view of a stretch of lawn and the forest beyond.

(2) Seated in the chair behind the desk was a very attractive, fifty-something woman with longish blond hair framing a beautiful face with a dimpled smile and striking blue eyes.  She was dressed in what was probably a hideously expensive, custom tailored business suit.

(3) And finally, there was the 800-lb gorilla in the room in the form of Mistress Eve.  She was completely naked, as in nude, as in not wearing a stitch of clothing!  Also, she was standing on tiptoe in one corner of the room with her arms raised over her head and her wrists buckled in wide, padded leather cuffs that were attached to a taut, vertical chain.  Her ankles were bound together with similar cuffs, a ball-gag was strapped in her mouth, buckled tight enough to make her cheeks bulge, and a shock-collar was around her neck, the apparent twin of the collar around Bridget's neck!

Bridget stared at her supposed mistress and trainer in shock and amazement.  Eve's tan, toned body was perfect, of course, although the stretched, arms-over-head pose was robbing her flattened breasts of much of their natural volume.  Also, her gagged face suggested... fear?  Eve wasn't trying to speak, or rather, mewl through the two-inch ball plugging her mouth, and Bridget attributed that to the shock-collar.  Also, Eve's face glistened with sweat... probably nervous sweat.

Lydia planted Bridget in one of the two comfortably padded visitor chairs in front of the desk, then nodded to the blonde—meaning the blonde not naked and semi-suspended in the corner—and left the office, closing the door behind her.  Bridget noted all this from the corner of one eye.  Her attention remained on Eve.  Naked.  Bound.  Gagged.  Eve.

"Maya, be a dear and bring us some cold drinks, would you please?"

Bridget shifted her stunned, bit-gagged gaze to the blonde that wasn't Eve.  She had been the one placing the drink order, of course, via the telephone on the desk.

"Thank you," the blonde purred, then hung up the handset.  Her smiling gaze had been on Bridget the entire time.  "I'm Meredith Wilkinson," she introduced herself, "Eve's sister.  And you, of course, are Bridget Riordan."

Bridget stared at this "Meredith" woman but didn't try and answer.  After all, she was not only bit-gagged, but was a mute pony—meaning was wearing a shock-collar.

Meredith stood, walked around the desk, and sat in the visitor chair next to Bridget.

Bridget watched as Meredith leaned down and lifted her right pony-boot onto her lap, then unbuckled the knee-strap and began loosening the laces running down the boot's front.  Her nimble fingers made quick work of the laces, and soon Bridget's pale foot slithered free.  The hateful boot landed with a thud on the carpet, then Meredith lifted and began removing Bridget's left boot.  It quickly followed its mate to the floor with another thud, and Meredith began massaging Bridget's feet.

Bridget squirmed in her bonds, her eyes focused on Meredith's smiling face.  She was very glad to be out of the hateful boots, and Meredith seemed to be just as talented a masseuse as her sister... the naked bound, gagged, and shock-collared sister semi-suspended in the corner.  So... what the hell is going on?

Just then, the door opened and Maya entered, skillfully balancing a tray with three tall iced drinks garnished with mint and lime slices and sporting long straws.  "Mojitos," the cook announced.

"Excellent!" Meredith gushed.  "Please place mine and Bridget's on the desk."

"Yes, Mistress," Maya replied.  "Right away, Mistress."

Bridget blinked and stared at the smiling, irreverently smiling cook.  Maya was still Maya.  She was in no way cowed by Meredith.

One drink was placed within easy reach of the swivel-chair behind the desk and the second next to Bridget's chair.  Maya placed the tray and remaining drink on the desk, then leaned close and began unbuckling Bridget's headstall and bit.  "Pobrecita," she whispered.

Once the web of straps fell away from her head and face and the hated bit left her mouth, Bridget turned to glare at the cook, but was stopped by the sympathy evident in Maya's expression.  There was nothing mocking in her smile.  Bridget wasn't being teased.  Go figure, she mused.

"Please, refresh yourself," Meredith purred.

You don't have to tell me twice! Bridget thought, suddenly realizing how thirsty she was.  She leaned to the side, took the drink's straw in her mouth, and sucked.  The mojito was just as cold and refreshing as she'd hoped, but she admonished herself to go slow.  Brain-freeze was the last thing she needed.  Meredith continued massaging her feet... which was nearly as pleasant as the drink.  She watched as Maya lifted the third drink from the tray and strolled in Eve's direction.

Eve was staring at the drink.  Maya held the moisture-beaded glass close to Eve's ball-gagged mouth, then turned the straw, took the end in her own mouth, and sucked, all the while smiling... then turned and walked away.

"Please tell Lydia that we're almost ready," Meredith said as Maya opened the door.

"Yes, Mistress," Maya said, then resumed sucking on the straw.  She crossed the threshold, closed the door behind her, and was gone.

Bridget turned back and watched Meredith continue massaging her very grateful feet.  She took the straw of her delicious drink in her mouth, again, and resumed sucking.

"I know we have a lot to discuss," Meredith said as she kneaded Bridget's feet, "but first, I have to discuss the situation with my sister... when she's in the proper mood to chant in a civilized manner."

Bridget nodded, then resumed drinking... slowly.  The mojito was, indeed, ice cold, and the threat of brain-freeze loomed large... and icy.

"Lydia will take you to a guest room where you can freshen up and take a nice nap," Meredith continued.  "We can talk in the morning."

'Guest room?'  'Freshen up?'  Was Lydia going to take her back to the stables and hose her off?  Bridget would have liked to be able to ask, but the shock-collar was still padlocked around her throat.

Meredith continued slowly, gently massaging Bridget's feet.

Bridget finished her drink... and realized she was feeling a bit of a buzz.  Apparently, Maya made a potent mojito.  Also, Bridget's stomach had been more or less empty.  The promised nap was starting to sound good... even if it happened in a stall in the stable.

In the corner, Eve stood on her toes... naked and helpless... and stared at her sister.  Bridget had no idea what the blonde—the other blonde, the one that wasn't Meredith—might be thinking, but she still recognized fear in Eve's pale-blue eyes.

The office door opened and Lydia entered.

"Stable Mistress," Meredith purred, acknowledging Lydia's arrival.  She then gently lifted Bridget's bare feet off her lap and eased them to the floor, stood, and helped Bridget to her bare feet.  "Please see to our guest's needs, as we discussed."

"Yes, Mistress," Lydia acknowledged, then took hold of the end of the leather lead still dangling from Bridget's collar and led her towards the office door.

Bridget looked back over her shoulder as they crossed the threshold.  Meredith was gazing at her sister.  The older blonde's smile morphed into an angry stare... and then Bridget's view was cut off as Lydia closed the door and led her away.
A Pony Named Freckles
Chapter 8
Bridget was in something of a daze, to say the least.  She'd started her day as a pony undergoing training, and now she was... what?  Bridget had no clear idea what her new status might be, other than as a naked, harnessed, and shock-collared prisoner.  Lydia led her to a narrow set of stairs leading up, and they began to climb.  Lydia's cowgirl boots thudded on the wooden treads while Bridget's pale, freckle-free, bare feet were silent.

At the head of the stairs was a small landing and a wooden door.  Lydia produced her key ring, unlocked and opened the door, then led Bridget into the room beyond.  It was an attic bedroom, with a queen-size, four-poster bed, a pair of easy chairs and a love seat grouped around a wooden trunk serving as a coffee-table, and a straight chair before a small writing desk.  There was also a combination wardrobe and chest of drawers, and across the room was a second door, of the sliding variety.  All the furnishings were in either Log Cabin or Western style: peeled logs, rough sawed planks, and Indian blanket fabrics.

The ceiling was a complicated array of rafters and cross-braces, making it clear that the room was, indeed, a part of the mansion's attic.  There were also a pair of dormer windows with drapes and rather ominous looking iron bars.

Bridget realized Lydia was releasing her from her training-harness.  This was nothing new, Mistress Eve buckled and unbuckled the harness at least twice daily, before and after her exercise periods, but Lydia wasn't taking the usual precautions.  That is, there was no intermediate bondage, no tethering to posts or dangling chains, and no coils of rope or other items suitable for bondage waited to replace the harness.  Lydia was releasing her completely.  The harness straps melted away, then Lydia unbuckled and unzipped the bondage-mitts encasing her hands.  Finally, she spun Bridget around, unlocked the shock-collar's padlock, then unbuckled and removed the collar itself.

For the first time since being tricked into trying on a set of pony-girl gear, all those many long, horrible days before, Bridget was completely free... and totally naked.

Meanwhile, Lydia gathered all the elements of Bridget's former bondage together into one tinkling and shaking mass, then strolled to the entrance.  "Shower," the Stable Mistress ordered, pointing to the closed sliding door, then pointed to the bed.  "Nap."  And with that, Lydia was on the landing, the door closed, and Bridget heard the sound of the key turning in the lock.

Bridget blinked in surprise, listening to the fading sound of Lydia's boots on the stairs... then remembered that the insidious shock-collar was gone.  Its imposed conditioning had kept her from demanding an explanation of what was happening or protesting her continuing captivity... and now it was too late.

Bridget heaved a sigh, then padded around her new prison, making a more detailed inspection.

The windows afforded a charming view of the lawn and forest beyond.  The closely-spaced bars were solidly bolted in place, with no hinge or latch or any provision for opening or removal without recourse to the appropriately size wrench or socket driver.  There was no way a burglar would be sneaking into Wilkinson Ranch via these windows.  There was also no way the occupant of the bedroom would be escaping in case of an emergency.  Bridget added building code violations to Eve's charge sheet, along with kidnapping, unlawful imprisonment, and being a terrible hostess.

The sliding door led to a cozy bathroom with a toilet, washbasin, mirror, and a disproportionately large shower alcove.  There was also a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste (wintergreen mint), and a hairbrush and comb.  A plastic bottle of body-wash/shampoo waited on a tiled shelf in the shower.  A pair of fluffy towels hung from a towel-bar.

Back in the main bedroom, the wardrobe and drawers were completely empty.  The bed was neatly made with fresh sheets and a very pretty bedspread.  A blanket was folded and draped across the foot of the bed.  She lifted the lid of the trunk/coffee-table, and found it was as empty as the wardrobe/chest of drawers.

So... Bridget was naked and still a prisoner... but at least she wasn't harnessed or bound... or collared.

The bedroom beat the hell out of a stall in the stable or one of the chambers in the basement of one of the outbuildings; but it was still a cell, a luxurious prison cell.  Bridget recalled the Stable Mistress' instructions:  'Shower.'  'Nap.'  Why not? she mused, then padded into the bathroom and pulled out the balancing-valve in the shower.  Water gurgled in the pipes... then began flowing in a torrent from the shower head.  While the stream came up to temperature, Bridget turned and gazed at her reflection in the mirror.

This was her first opportunity to examine her face since her capture.  She had to admit that "Freckles" was now a very appropriate nickname—she refused to think of it as her "pony-name"—but there was a catch.  Most of her time in the sun had been while restrained in the training-harness, including the headstall that anchored the required bit in her mouth.  As a consequence, Bridget's face now had "tan-lines."  Her visage had a multitude of new freckles, but the straps of the now absent headstall had left pale stripes in their wake.  The same went for the rest of her naked form: thousands of new freckles dappled her body, but pale stripes marked where the harness straps had restrained her arms and torso.  Her fingers, hands, and forearms were also pale, as were her toes, feet, and legs from the knees down.

And as for the nipple-rings... they were there.  Her breasts were dappled with freckles, like every other part of her anatomy that hadn't been covered by a training-harness strap, and the rings were... steel... and they were there

Bridget heaved a sigh, then turned and entered the shower alcove.  A hot shower!  It was glorious!  She took her time, using a dab of body-wash to soap her skin and hair and scrub herself clean.  Finally, enough was enough.  She gave herself a final, thorough rinse, then turned off the water and toweled herself dry, including her hair.  As she first combed and then brushed her still slightly damp pageboy, Bridget considered wrapping the damp towel around her torso, but decided it wasn't worth the effort.  After all this time, she was used to her nudity.

Bridget padded back into the bedroom and to the bed, pulled back the covers, slid her nude, semi-freckled body between the cool sheets, snuggled her head against one of the soft, fluffy pillows... and closed her eyes.

Bridget decided she'd sort things out later.  She'd demand answers later.  She'd demand her freedom later.  But for now, Bridget was content to follow Lydia's last order.  'Nap.'
A Pony Named Freckles
Chapter 8
Bridget came awake to the thud of footfalls on the stairs... followed by the sound of the door being unlocked.  A glance at the windows suggested it was late in the day.

The door opened and Scheherazade and Prancine entered the attic bedroom.  They were both naked (also tan, shapely, and exquisitely beautiful, of course).  Prancine was carrying a large and apparently heavy serving tray with a covered ceramic pot, a tortilla warmer, a stack of bowls, several napkins and spoons, and three moisture-beaded bottles of cold beer.  It was a cumbersome load, even for a fit, athletic pony like blue-eyed Prancine, and no doubt Scheherazade would have helped, but the brown-eyed pony's hands were behind her back and tight, neat strands of hemp rope bound her upper-arms to her sides and yoked her shoulders.  Bridget caught a glimpse of Lydia's smiling face as the door closed, the lock turned, and the sound of a single set of booted footsteps faded away.

"Hi!" the ponies said in unison, then strolled to the love-seat and easy chairs.

Prancine placed the tray on the trunk/coffee-table, then settled onto the love-seat and patted the cushion at her side.

Scheherazade giggled, padded to the love-seat, and sat.  This allowed Bridget to determine that Scheherazade's bonds were a mildly severe box-tie.  The pony's arms were folded in what amounted to a double-hammerlock with her wrists lashed against her spine, just below her shoulder blades.

Prancine lifted the lid from the pot and used a ladle to stir the contents.

"Posole," Scheherazade explained with a bright smile and a nod at the pot.

Bridget finally found her voice.  "Uh... posole?"

"Posole!" the ponies nodded in unison.

"Pork, hominy, red chilies, onion, and... uh... spices," Prancine explained.

"New Mexico," Scheherazade added.  "Maya does Pueblo and Navajo recipes too; not just Mexican."

"Not just Mexican," Prancine agreed.

Bridget stared at the brunette ponies.  The "posole" smelled delicious... and Bridget was hungry, having missed her midday gruel while being... rescued?  Anyway, whatever it was that had actually happened, she'd missed lunch.  She slid from between the sheets, ran her fingers through her ginger pageboy, then padded to one of the easy-chairs and sat.

Prancine ladled a generous portion of posole into a bowl and handed it to Bridget, followed by a napkin and spoon.

Bridget spread the napkin in her naked lap, loaded the spoon with the chunky, spicy stew, and took a tentative bite.  Temperature-wise, it was hot, but not too hot.  Spice-wise, it was also hot, but not too hot.  Prancine handed her a bottle of beer and she took a swig.  "Thanks!"

"You're welcome," Scheherazade and Prancine said in unison.

While Bridget continued eating, Prancine ladled stew into another bowl, then began feeding Scheherazade and herself, alternating spoonfuls of posole, bites of warm tortilla, and swigs of beer.

Bridget chewed and swallowed a mouthful of stew, followed up with another swig of beer, then focused on Scheherazade.  "Uh, why did they tie you up?"

Scheherazade shared a smile with her fellow brunette before answering.  "Because I was there."

Bridget favored the ponies with her best unamused stare as they shared a mild, giggling fit.

"Actually," Prancine said, "it was her turn."

"Her turn?" Bridget demanded.

"Her turn," Prancine nodded.

"Somebody has to be tied up," Scheherazade said gravely... then shared another conspiratorial giggle with Prancine.

Bridget rolled her eyes and resumed eating.  She also did her best to stifle the smile threatening to curl her lips.  "I'm beginning to suspect you two don't want to be rescued."

Scheherazade smiled at Bridget, started to speak, but whatever she was going to say was preempted when Prancine shoveled a spoonful of posole into her mouth.

"We're to let Mistress Meredith do the explaining," Prancine scolded the chewing and smiling Scheherazade, "remember?"

"Mistress Meredith?" Bridget asked.

"Tomorrow at breakfast," Prancine added.  "Mistress Meredith will explain everything tomorrow... at breakfast."

Bridget frowned.  She was far from satisfied.

"We were ordered not to talk," Scheherazade explained.

"Ponies don't talk," Prancine chuckled, then nodded at Bridget's nearly empty bowl.  "More?"

Bridget presented her bowl and Prancine ladled in more stew.

"Tomorrow," Scheherazade said with a reassuring smile.

Bridget couldn't believe she was being this passive, but badgering Prancine and Scheherazade seemed... rude.  They were here to provide companionship, for which she was very grateful, and to share a delicious dinner.  She knew they were also following orders, like good ponies, but there was nothing to be gained by making a scene.  Maybe if anyone deserved to make a scene, it was "Freckles," but what good would it do?  Why make life miserable—as opposed to submissively kinky—for her fellow ponies?

"Fellow ponies," Bridget whispered to herself.

"What was that?" Scheherazade asked.

"Nothing," Bridget muttered, and continued eating.

It turned out the ponies were locked in the bedroom to do more than share dinner.  After eating, they first shared the bathroom, and then the bed.  Bridget insisted that Scheherazade be untied.  Prancine objected, saying Mistress Lydia had tied her up and it wasn't their place to tamper with the Stable Mistress' work.  Bridget rolled her eyes, then stepped forward, spun Scheherazade around, and did the deed herself.  She teased the knots apart... the ropes slithered free... and now all three ponies were naked and free—naked and free and locked in the attic bedroom, that is.

"No funny stuff," Bridget warned Scheherazade and Prancine.  "There's plenty of room on the bed for everybody, but..."  She shook a finger at her smiling guests.  "No funny stuff!"

Prancine and Scheherazade shared a somewhat predatory smile, then slowly strolled in Bridget's direction.

"There is plenty of room," Scheherazade noted.

"It is a queen-size mattress," Prancine agreed.

Bridget started backing up.  She didn't like her fellow ponies' expressions.  "No funny stuff!" she reiterated.

Prancine and Scheherazade pounced!

Bridget shrieked!  "Eeek!"

The two naked brunettes dragged the struggling, naked ginger to the bed!

Bridget continued struggling and squirming, also writhing, whining, and giggling.  Why giggling?  Scheherazade and Prancine had firm grips on her wrists, their naked bodies were pinning her to the bed, and the fingers of their free hands were tickling her ribs and armpits!  This was followed by a great deal of cuddling, kissing, the flicking of nipple-rings, the prolonged licking of labia, and other activities that could easily be categorized as "funny stuff."

All of this went on for quite some time, without respite and until well after sunset.  Bridget had to admire her fellow ponies' stamina, when her increasingly flustered brain wasn't otherwise occupied.

Finally... exhausted, sweaty, and satiated... the ponies settled into an intimate tangle of arms, legs, and bodies... and drifted off to sleep.
A Pony Named Freckles
Chapter 8
Bridget's pony guests woke before she did.  She opened her eyes, yawned, rolled over, stretched, and only then realized that she had the bed entirely to herself.  She could hear the water in the bathroom running, and made the logical conclusion that Prancine and Scheherazade were conserving water by sharing the shower.  The ponies certainly needed a shower.  Bridget certainly needed a shower.

As Bridget untangled herself from the sheets the sound of the shower stopped.  She made it to the bathroom door in time to watch Scheherazade and Prancine toweling each other dry with a single towel.  Bridget watched through the open door as the ponies slid the thirsty terrycloth over each others tan skin.  There wasn't room for the three of them in the bathroom.  There wasn't really room for the two ponies, either, but they were huddled very closely together and making do.

"Good morning," Bridget purred, smiling at the tangle of shining skin, flailing limbs, and fluffy terrycloth.

"Morning!" Prancine and Scheherazade chorused in return, then eased past Bridget—planting kisses on the smiling ginger's lips in the process—and focused on drying their hair, still with one towel.

"We left you the other towel," Prancine explained.

"You better be quick," Scheherazade added.  "The Stable Mistress will probably be here at any time."

"Whatever," Bridget sighed, entered the humid bathroom, turned on the shower, and stepped under the stream of hot, steaming water.  It felt good.  It felt very good.  She soaped and scrubbed her body and hair, then thoroughly rinsed away the suds.  She then dried her body with the second towel and returned to the bedroom drying her hair... to find it empty.

Prancine was gone, Scheherazade was gone, and the coil of rope Bridget had untied, thereby liberating Scheherazade, was also gone; but there was something new.  The bed had been stripped, which was a good thing.  Lord knows the sheets needed changing, Bridget thought.  However, a neat stack of clothing was waiting on the bare mattress, including a pair of Mexican sandals.  There was a pair of panties, a bra, a neatly folded cotton blouse, and a pair of designer jeans.  None of the clothes were hers.  That is, they weren't things Bridget had brought with her to Wilkinson Ranch... in the vague, distant, pre-pony past.

Everything was a perfect fit, even the sandals, and now Bridget was fully clothed like a normal person, for the first time since... whenever.  The clothes were Western in style, the sort of cowgirl outfit Lydia usually wore, but chic and expensive, the sort of things Bridget had seen in the Sundance catalog.  Also, the sandals were rust-brown, the jeans stonewashed denim, and the blouse a faded turquoise, all of which complemented her ginger hair and freckled complexion.  It was just the sort of outfit she might have chosen for herself if she wanted to blend in at a dude ranch.

Bridget was also well aware that it signaled a change in status, from "pony" to "human."  As she dressed—which felt very strange after all this time of being naked, helpless, and harnessed—she wondered how long it would last.  Panties donned, bra clasped, jeans zipped, and blouse snap-buttoned, she brushed and combed her still slightly damp pageboy, then opened the bedroom door (which was unlocked!) and descended the steps.

Bridget was far more familiar with the stables than the house, but she managed to find her way to the dining room.  She cautiously entered... and her eyes widened in surprise.  Meredith Wilkinson was present, dressed much like Bridget, only her blouse was sky-blue and a designer scarf was loosely knotted around her neck and a braided leather belt threaded through the loops of her jeans and secured with a really pretty and probably hideously expensive Mexican silver belt buckle.

"Good morning, Bridget," Meredith said with a warm smile.  "Please, join me."  She was already seated at the table, which was set for two, and was sipping a cup of coffee.

Meanwhile, Bridget was staring at the other person seated at the table, before a place not set for dining.  It was Eve, and she was naked, and elaborately bound to her chair—a wheelchair—with several yards of tight, cinched, flesh-dimpling rope.  The blonde younger Wilkinson sister was glaring at Bridget above a gag that appeared to be a ball-gag under layers of tight, off-white Vet-wrap tape.  There was also the shock-collar still buckled around her neck, so the gag was probably redundant.

"I told you to be polite," Meredith warned her sister, then produced what Bridget recognized as a remote control for a shock-collar, and placed in on the tablecloth beside her knife and spoon.

Eve also recognized the remote, of course, and the anger in her blue eyes instantly changed to fear.

Normally, Bridget would have felt sympathy for a naked, bound, and gagged prisoner, but in the case of Eve... not so much.

"Uh, morning."  Bridget sat in the chair before the second place setting.

"Coffee?" Meredith offered, lifting an insulated carafe.

"Yes, please," Bridget responded, watched as Meredith filled the cup at her place setting with hot, steaming coffee, then added cream from a small pitcher.

Suddenly, the door from the kitchen opened and Maya entered, pushing a serving cart laden with a pair of covered plates.

"Bacon, scrambled eggs, hash-browns, and toast," Maya announced as she placed plates before Bridget and Meredith, then lifted their covers.

Bridget looked at her plate.  It was laden as Maya had promised.  She lifted her gaze to the cook.

"What?" Maya demanded.  "You think I can't cook American?  You think huevos rancheros or huevos con chorrizo is the limit of my breakfast repertoire?"

"No, no!" Bridget responded quickly.  "It all looks delicious."  She glanced at Eve, then back to the glowering cook.

"Don't worry about Perra," Maya growled.  "She's already been force-fed her morning oatmeal."

"Perra?" Meredith chuckled.

Maya shrugged.  "The ponies and I..."  She nodded at Bridget.  "Meaning the other ponies, are trying out pony names for the crazy one.  I suggested 'Perra,' 'Puta,' 'Rata,' and 'Escorpióna.'  The brown ponies like Perra, but we're still open to suggestions."

Eve was back to glaring, and this time her angry stare was directed at the grinning cook.

"There's no need to make a hasty decision," Meredith chuckled.  "Take your time and give Bridget a chance to think of something.  She is a writer, after all."

Maya shrugged.  "Whatever."  She turned the cart and returned to the kitchen.

"Eat," Meredith suggested, then spread her napkin in her lap, picked up her fork, and sampled her scrambled eggs.  "Perfect!" she gushed.

Bridget followed suit.  She had to agree.  The eggs were perfect... as was the smoked, thick-sliced, lightly peppered, and expertly cooked bacon.

"We can discuss the situation as we eat," Meredith continued.

Bridget sipped her coffee before speaking.  "You mean, we can discuss when you'll be letting me go, of course."  She might not be a naked, bound, gagged, and shock-collared prisoner, like the still glowering "Perra," but she was under no delusion.  Meredith Wilkins was in charge.  She could order Lydia and/or Maya to strip Bridget of her borrowed clothes and tie her up or strap her into a harness at a whim.

Meredith sighed, sipped her own coffee, then favored Bridget with a sad smile.  "Actually, we'll be discussing exactly why I can't let you go."
A Pony Named Freckles
Chapter 8
The  End


Chapter 7
Chapter 9


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