A Pony Named Freckles
A
              Pony Named Freckles


by Van © 2016


Epilogue


DRAMATIS PERSONÆ


OUR STORY CONCLUDES


ONE YEAR LATER

Bridget clicked the left mouse button, sending the latest revisions to her new novel's third chapter to her editor. When completed, it would be her second novel since moving into Wilkinson Ranch, but her first "adult" novel, ever; her first novel not labeled or marketed as "Young Adult."  While the plot would feature a little making out and bed sharing among some of the characters, the prose wouldn't be explicitly... explicit.  That is, there would be no blow-by-blow descriptions of sex.  It was adult in that it was being written for an adult audience.  If all went well, when Inductance (the tentative title) eventually arrived at the local Barnes & Noble, the clerks would be placing it among the "Science Fiction/Fantasy" books, not in one of the various "Teen" categories.

Bridget stretched, then pushed back from the desk and stood.  Soon after moving into her new rooms (Eve Wilkinson's former bedroom suite) she'd decided it would be the place where she'd do most of her writing.  There was an alcove off the main bedroom with a desk, a comfortable office chair, and a picture window providing a pleasant but non-distracting view of a stretch of forest.  She'd started with her laptop, but soon a powerful desktop machine with a large, HD touchscreen had taken its place on the desk.

Just then, Bridget heard her name being called from somewhere outside the house.

"Bridget!  Briiid-geeet!"

Bridget smiled, recognizing Scheherazade's voice.  She strolled to a set of French doors, flung them open, then stepped out onto a small balcony.  Hands on the peeled log railing, she gazed down at the naked brunette smiling up at her from the lawn.  "What?"

"Can Freckles come out and play?" Scheherazade shouted.

"I'm writing!" Bridget shouted back, suppressing the smile struggling to curl her lips.

"Oh, c'mon!" Scheherazade pouted at full volume, stamping her bare feet in the grass (and causing her boobs to bob).  Scheherazade had perfected all methods of pouting.  How else was a naked, beautiful pony supposed to get her way?  ...other than seduction, of course.

Bridget heaved a sigh of mock exasperation.

"Come out and play!" Scheherazade reiterated.  "You haven't done your daily exercise and the Stable Mistress will notice if you don't snap to it!  Meet me in the stables!"

Bridget shook her head and watched Scheherazade scamper away... then reentered the bedroom, strolled to the walk-in closet, and began disrobing.  Soon, her Mexican sandals were in their accustomed place, her jeans and Western Blouse were hung from hangers, and her underwear was removed, folded, and placed atop a chair to await her return.  Now totally naked, Bridget paused to admire herself in the triptych of full-length mirrors at the far end of the closet.

Bridget was in the best shape of her life.  Her muscle tone and flexibility had always been good, but they'd visibly improved under Lydia's tutelage.  Her freckles had long since filled in and were—in the collective opinion of the denizens of the ranch—magnificent.  The "tan-lines," the peach-pink bands of freckle-free skin caused by her initial wearing of her pony-harness, had long since disappeared, thanks to regular bouts of sunbathing and skinny-dipping in the pool and at the duck pond on the far side of the property.

Bridget's pageboy was now shorter.  Lydia had talked her into letting Maya give her a trim.  Why the frowning, much put upon Latina had insisted that Bridget had to be naked, tied to a straight chair, and with her lips taped shut before she could give her a haircut, Bridget had no idea, but it had happened.  Bridget's ginger locks were now closer to a Louise Brooks or Valentina bob, and she loved it

And as for her nipple-rings... they were there.  Bridget had gotten used to them.  She had not gotten used to the things her fellow ponies or Lydia did to them when they came visiting at night... which happened not every night or on a predictable basis, but as often as several times a week.  The rings gleamed in the closet's spotlights, reminding her of her status as a pony... when she wasn't the writer-in-residence, that is.

Bridget sighed... then left the bedroom, made her way through the house, and hurried towards the stables.  It would be rude to keep Scheherazade waiting.
A Pony Named Freckles
Epilogue
As expected, Bridget found Scheherazade already dressing out in the Harnessing Room beside the main stable's Tack Room.  The stable complex had other tack and harnessing rooms, but these were what the ponies referred to as the "vanilla" or "regular" harnessing and tack storage facilities.  The wall-mounted pad-eyes and eye-bolts, motorized winches running in overhead tracks, and dangling chains, all the things required to maintain total and complete control of a reluctant pony during all stages of outfitting her with regular or "special" harnesses and/or "special" accessories, were at a minimum.

"Hurry," Scheherazade said as Bridget passed the Harnessing Room.

"Chill," Bridget giggled, then entered the Tack Room, gathered her boots and the various elements of her custom-fitted costume, then joined her fellow pony in the Harnessing Room.

Scheherazade was sitting on a wooden bench and lacing up her pony-boots.  She'd already donned most of her harness, although Bridget noted that the various buckles securing her fellow pony's harness hadn't been pulled especially tight.

Bridget deposited her tinkling load of straps and buckles on a second bench, including her boots, then picked up her main harness, sorted it out, dropped it over her head, and began threading and securing the buckles.  A few of them were difficult to reach, but she managed.  By this time Bridget was quite familiar with the process.

This was the point at which Bridget Riordan became Freckles the pony, at least in her own mind.  Whether she was donning the harness herself, or someone (meaning Lydia) was strapping her into the thing—when the leather began hugging her toned, freckled torso and framing her firm, freckled breasts—Bridget became Freckles.

Scheherazade had finished lacing her boots.  She stood, stamped her feet to test the fit, then frowned at Freckles.  "Chop, chop," she ordered, clapping her hands.  "Mistress will be here any second to finish us off... so to speak."  She was referring to the mittens, upper-arm straps, and forearm sheathes that would complete their body-harnesses and render them helpless, of course.  Even the most cooperative and experienced pony couldn't secure the truly restrictive elements of her own harness without assistance.

While Freckles finished lacing her boots, Scheherazade buckled on her bridle and headstall.  She made sure her long, brunette hair dangled through the ring in the back and that the various straps passing across her forehead, under her chin, and to either side of her button nose, were neatly and uniformly tight.  She left the attached bit-gag dangling from its left ring, then turned to face Freckles, hands of hips.  "Too slow," she admonished.

"Would you rather I was quick," Freckles purred, "or right?"

"I want both," Scheherazade admonished her fellow pony.  "Mistress expects both."  She stepped behind Freckles and helped her finish donning her costume.  That included Freckle's bridle, which was customized to accommodate her pageboy.  There was no ponytail-ring in the back.  It took a little effort to insure Freckle's straight, ginger locks were neatly and evenly divided between the various straps, but not much more than it had taken for Scheherazade to arrange her ponytail.

Scheherazade then helped Freckles with her finger- and hand-encasing mittens, zipping and buckling them tight.  She then captured the cooperative pony's folded arms behind her back, buckling the forearm sheath.  Scheherazade was also "helpful" enough to tighten each and every strap of Freckle's harness.

"Oh, that's nice," Freckles complained.  "You leave your straps nice and loose, then—Frrrf!"  Scheherezade had paused in the act of tightening the final two straps, the ones that pinned Freckle's upper arms to her sides, to thrust the bridle's bit between her fellow pony's lips and teeth and buckle it in place.  Freckles stared daggers as the grinning brunette finished securing the harness.

Freckles wasn't really angry.  Scheherazade's "mean" act of bit-gagging her before it was really necessary and "excessively" tightening her harness straps was all part of the game.  The harness straps needed to be tight.  Otherwise, they would chafe and raise blisters when placed under load.  Freckles knew Scheherazade had left her own straps loose so the Stable Mistress could enjoy making her own final adjustments.

Next, Scheherazade clipped the ends of a pair of chains through the bit-rings of Freckle's bridle, tethering her between two posts.  It was so she wouldn't wander off, of course... and was another part of the game.

And then, the Stable Mistress appeared.  She was dressed in knee boots of gleaming brown leather—taupe, skin-tight riding pants with tan suede thigh and seat panels—a dark-tan cotton blouse—a wide leather corset-belt in the same shade and finish as her boots—and—

Freckle's eyes popped wide in total and complete surprise!

"What the hell?" Scheherazade gasped.  She was just as flabbergasted as Freckles!

The Stable Mistress wasn't the Stable Mistress!  The new arrival in equestrian costume was Prancine!

"You like?"  Her blue eyes sparkling, Prancine turned in a graceful, flowing pirouette, allowing her astonished fellow ponies to admire her costume.

Freckles noted a complete lack of panty-lines, and the riding pants were tight enough that if Prancine was wearing panties, they would have to be of the body-paint variety to not leave panty-lines.  Reinforcing the tight pants theme, Prancine was sporting a prominent camel-toe.  And as for the blouse, it was thin and close-fitting enough to reveal a pair of unmistakable pokies.  It was also half-unbuttoned, revealing spectacular cleavage and making it clear that Prancine wasn't wearing a bra, either.  Her long, gleaming brown locks were loose and framed her deeply tanned, smiling face.

Freckles was amazed, to say the least.  Also... Prancine the slutty equestrian groom was HOT!

Scheherazade was hot as well, but not in the same way.  "What do you think you're doing?" she sputtered.  "The Stable Mistress will skin you alive!"  She continued gasping and complaining, but passively cooperated as Prancine helped her into her pony-mittens and arm-sheath.  "Hurry back and put that outfit wherever you found it," Scheherazade continued, "before Lydia or Maya see you!  M'mmpfh!"

"Hush," Prancine chuckled as she buckled Scheherazade's bridle-bit, then began tightening her harness straps.  "Mistress Lydia ordered me to handle your morning exercise, and she said if I was going to be driving you around, I couldn't be 'dressed' like a pony, now could I?"  She unclipped Freckle's bit-tethering chains, clipped leads to both ponies' harnesses, through D-rings in the straps above their breasts, then led them from the Harnessing Room.

"From now on, Mistress Lydia has decided to delegate at least a little of your training," Prancine continued, "and since I'm the senior pony, I'm saddled with the job... so to speak."

They left the main stable and approached the circular exercise yard between the outbuildings, the one with the automatic pony-walking machine.  The two-pony touring sulky was off to one side and Prancine positioned her charges between its shafts and began the process of buckling their harnesses to the two-wheeled conveyance.

Freckles was still stunned by the revelation that Prancine had been promoted to Mistress.  She assumed it was a part time position.  By now she was familiar enough with her fellow ponies to know that both brunettes held a deep and abiding love for each other, herself, their Mistresses, and their roles as naked ponygirls.  That said, Scheherazade's overt reactions to Prancine's new role were, at best, difficult to read.  She was pouting—and Scheherazade's repertoire included a spectacular and truly heartbreaking bit-gagged pout—but Freckles was sure Scheherazade would eventually forgive her fellow-pony for turning traitor, donning a hot Slutty Stable Groom costume, and defecting, however briefly, to the Top team.

In any case, there was something new competing for Freckle's attention.
A Pony Named Freckles
Epilogue
Lydia, the Stable Mistress herself, was in the exercise yard, resplendent in her usual boots, jeans, and Western blouse.  It was a cloudless day and the sun was hot, so she'd added aviator shades and a wide-brimmed straw cowgirl hat to her ensemble.  In Freckle's humble opinion, Lydia was as hot as the weather and had never looked more like a modern cowgirl.  And just to be clear, that's a working cowgirl, not a dude ranch, all-hat-no-ponygirls, wannabe cowgirl.  A buggy-whip was in her right hand and she was absorbed in her training duties.  Specifically...

Naked, harnessed, and booted, the fourth member of the Wilkinson herd was walking slow circles around the exercise yard.  The bit in her mouth was attached to the pair of chains dangling from one end of the exercise machine's cross-arm.  This form of exercise was something with which all the ponies were depressingly familiar; however, pony-number-four was doing something different: she was high-stepping with every pace.  Her nipples were ringed, like Freckles, and a shining steel bell dangled from each ring and jingled with every step.  Every time a knee came up, it very nearly touched its matching bell.  Left knee, left bell.  Right knee, right bell.  Etc., etc., etc.

The pony in question had formerly been known as Eve Wilkinson, but now her name was "Felony."  The moniker was Bridget's suggestion, and all the denizens of the ranch had instantly agreed, even Maya, that it was a much more fitting pony name than "Perra."  Felony, herself, hated the name, but that was irrelevant.  The blonde's pony-harness and boots appeared to be of standard Wilkinson Ranch design.  She was inescapably restrained and permanently up on her toes, just like Freckles and Scheherazade, and her deeply tanned skin glistened with sweat, suggesting she had been practicing the high-step for some time.  In the year since Bridget had arrived at the ranch, Felony's blond hair had grown and was now about as long Scheherazade's and Prancine's.  At the moment, it was confined by the ring in the back of her bridle, but was also plaited in a tight braid and secured by a pale-blue ribbon. 

Freckles stood patiently beside the equally patient Scheherazade as Prancine made the final adjustments to the traces.  All three ponies—or more precisely the two naked, harnessed ponies and the clothed pony-mistress—watched as Felony made a slow, complete circuit of the track.

Lydia pulled a small remote control from her hip pocket.  "Whoa!" she ordered as she thumbed a button.  The machine's arm stopped turning and Felony smartly planted her booted feet, side by side.  Next, the Stable Mistress snapped her whip and barked "Up!"  Felony bent at the knees, her thigh muscles tensed, and she leaped straight up into the air.  She seemed to hang in the air... both hooves about six inches from the dusty ground... then she landed, her breasts flopped, and her ring-bells jingled.  While the bells stilled, Felony stood perfectly still, her back straight and blue eyes on the theoretical horizon, and waited for her trainer's next command.

Freckles knew this would have been her fate if Meredith hadn't intervened.  She would be the one training to execute the demanding, choreographed repertoire of moves expected of a fully trained "Dressage Pony."  As things stood, Freckles was only a working pony—which, more often than not, meant a playing pony—and she wasn't even a full-time working pony.  Most of the time (more than half, anyway) she was Bridget-the-human, Bridget-the-writer.  Felony was a full-time dressage pony, as far as Bridget was aware... that was the gossip among the rest of the herd, anyway.

Freckles gazed at her fellow pony and former kidnapper... and sighed.  She supposed some degree of sympathy for Felony's plight was only human.  Did she like Eve?  No.  Did she forgive her for trying to enslave her?  No.  But Freckles and Bridget couldn't help but feel sorry for an unhappy pony, no matter how well-deserved that pony's fate.

Lydia snapped the whip, thumbed the remote, and ordered Felony to begin her cool-down walk.  The motor hummed, the arm resumed turning, and Felony resumed walking, only now she was placing one hoof in front of the other in a "normal" manner, without high-stepping.  Lydia turned and walked towards the sulky-hitched ponies and their waiting pony-mistress.

Freckles' gaze remained on Felony.  The blond pony's tan skin still shone with sweat.  It was clear that she was, indeed, in need of cooling down.  Once again, Freckles reflected, the Stable Mistress had demonstrated that she knew what she was doing.

Meanwhile, Lydia removed her sunglasses and placed them in her breast pocket.  "Don't worry about Felony," she drawled.  She was talking to Freckles, and Scheherazade and Prancine exchanged a knowing smile and a wink—a bit-gagged smile and wink in the case of Scheherazade—then Scheherazade bumped hips with Freckles and winked again when the ginger pony turned her head.  Freckles glared at her fellow pony and hip-bumped her back.

"You have to learn how to maintain discipline," Lydia purred, "if you expect to continue wrangling my ponies."  She was addressing Prancine.

"Yes, Mistress," Prancine answered with a grin.

Lydia lifted Freckle's chin and her blue-green eyes locked with the pony's green eyes.  "Don't worry about Felony," Lydia reiterated with a smile.  "Mistress Meredith has agreed that her baby sister no longer needs to spend every night chained or harnessed in the basement of Building Seven.  I'll be moving her into the small cottage tonight."

"The one with the barred windows, steel door, and the long chain attached to the back wall?" Prancine asked.

"Yes," Lydia confirmed.

"Close chains?" Prancine added.

Lydia favored the blue-eyed pony-mistress with an even stare.  "No, not close chains," Lydia said, "unless she needs punishing.  Felony will continue training during the day, but now, at night, she'll be locked in the cottage and chained by a single ankle or wrist."

"How nice," Prancine chuckled, then realized she may be pushing familiarity with her "fellow mistress" too far.  "Uh, would the Stable Mistress like to check this lowly pony's rigging efforts?" she asked (meaning groveled), indicating her fellow ponies (not counting Felony) with a stooping bow and sweeping gesture.

Lydia was unimpressed by Prancine's display of subservience, and she didn't bother to inspect the accouterments of the ginger and brunette ponies or the straps harnessing them to the sulky.  However (and much to Prancine's relief), a hint of a smile curled the Stable Mistress' lips.  "Maya packed your lunch?" Lydia drawled.

Prancine indicated the hamper strapped to the back of the sulky behind the seat.  "A picnic for three."

"Well then," Lydia drawled.  "Get a move on.  Your ponies aren't going to exercise themselves."

"Yes, Stable Mistress," Prancine responded, leaped onto the seat, took the ponies' reins in her hands, and gave them a shake.  "Giddyup!" she ordered.

Freckles and Scheherazade leaned into their harnesses, took a step in unison, the sulky's wheels began to turn, and they were off.

Lydia smiled as she watched the departing ponies, including the clothed, Trustee Pony in the sulky's seat.  She then turned back to Felony, who was still sweating and still walking the circles of her cool-down period.  Lydia's smile faded.  She had to bathe Felony, unharness her (mean change her restraints), oil and massage her body and feet, feed her lunch, then strap her to the Sybian saddle for her early-afternoon forced orgasm.  Only then would Lydia be able to wander into the kitchen and see what Maya had prepared for her lunch.

The Stable Mistress' duties could be quite demanding... all that firm, tan (or freckled) skin to oil and massage... all those toned, fit bodies to restrain and ravish... all those luscious lips and sweet mouths to bit-gag or tape-gag or stuff-gag (or kiss)...   Anyway, somebody had to do it.

And don't get me started about the paperwork, Lydia thought with a sigh.
A Pony Named Freckles
Epilogue
Bridget squirmed and stretched, her body sliding under the smooth, silky, high-thread-count cotton sheets and light summer blanket of her king-size bed... then rolled onto her right side and pulled the bedclothes up to her chin.  Although she owned several sheer, frilly, baby-doll nighties, with matching panties and robes, all in various pastel colors, for the last several months she'd taken to sleeping in the buff.  Bridget had become accustomed to nudity.  And besides, it was so... convenient.

Before drifting off to sleep, it was the custom of the Wilkinson Ranch Writer-in-Residence to take time to reflect on the events of the day.  This was for three reasons:

(1)  It helped her organize her thoughts.  The next morning, whenever she got around to updating her personal journal, she found that prior contemplation usually made for better word flow, fewer false starts.

(2)  It gave plenty of time for whoever might be planning to sneak into her bedroom and pounce on her unsuspecting body and do unspeakably depraved (and wonderful) things to her naked, defenseless self to finish their nightly chores.  Coming out of a sound sleep, there was always the possibility, however remote, that Bridget might do something, shall we say, defensive... like giving somebody a bloody nose.  Better to be awake and waiting to be pounced upon.  Sometimes the nookie-hungry predator was Lydia, sometimes it was one or even both of the brunette ponies, and on rare occasions, it was Maya.  But while such "visits" happened on an unpredictable basis and no more than a few times a week, they did happen... and the night was young.

(3)  And finally, if it looked like Bridget wasn't going to get a midnight visitor, she'd have plenty of time to decide if she wanted (meaning needed) to relieve the day's tension without predatory assistance.

So... the events of the day...

Bridget had already come to the conclusion that Lydia's news about Felony being moved into "The Cottage" was a good thing.  She had inspected the outbuilding in question and knew it to be as completely inescapable as any of the "pony stalls" (prison cells) in the basement of Building Seven.  The physical security of Felony's new digs wasn't an issue.

Also, it wasn't a matter of fear.  Neither Bridget nor Freckles were scared of Felony.  The blond "Convict Pony" seldom interacted with the other members of the herd, but when she did, Bridget got the distinct vibe that the former Eve Wilkinson was content with her radically altered situation.  She'd discussed it with Lydia, and the Stable Mistress agreed.  Eve/Felony had flipped.  After an initial period of resistance, both physical and mental, Felony was at peace with life as a bottom, as a mere pony.

Lydia had also made it clear that while Felony seemed to be thriving in her new role, trust was not an issue.  There would be no relaxation of vigilance.  Felony would not be escaping, nor would she be afforded any opportunity whatsoever to disturb the peace and domestic tranquility of Wilkinson Ranch.  Lydia had given her word, and Bridget knew that Lydia's word was good.

As for the other events of the day...

Prancine the Slutty Stable Groom had been a real bitch... not!  Granted, she'd dragged her charges, Freckles and Scheherazade, through a serious workout, taking them on two full circuits of the perimeter trail before tethering the sulky to the post under the shade near the duck pond.  But then, she'd unpacked Maya's picnic, spread the required blanket, unhitched the ponies from the sulky, helped them recline on the blanket, removed their bits, and shared with them the delicious meal.  This required her to hand-feed both ponies, of course, as the bits were the only elements of their pony-harnesses that she'd removed.

Yes, Prancine was the very picture of the benign and considerate handler... until after lunch.  Repast complete, the grinning groom pulled a bundle of thin leather straps from the bottom of the hamper and used them to bind the harnessed ponies together, bridled-face-to-bridled-face, ringed-boob-to-non-ringed-boob, tummy-to-tummy, and thigh-to-thigh.  Lying on their sides, the pouting ponies watched as Prancine then disrobed, bade them a pleasant apres luncheon nap, accompanied by a truly infuriating smile and air-kiss, then went for a dip in the pond.  The rat!

Freckles and Scheherazade reacted as one might expect.  They grouched, groaned, wiggled, and squirmed.  At least they were off their booted feet, so their toes didn't have cause to complain, but it was a cruel and nasty trick Prancine had played on them.  The harnessed and body-to-body-bound ponies shared a final, simultaneous sigh, then did the only logical thing possible, under the circumstances: they sucked face until their handler returned from her swim.

Back in the dark present of her bedroom, Bridget's hand slid between her legs and gently caressed her labia.  Thinking about the afternoon "ordeal" she'd shared with Scheherazade had put her in the mood.  Her hand continued slowly, gently stroking her pussy... and then...

A female figure lunged from the darkness, pounced on the bed, jerked down the covers, and rolled Bridget onto her stomach!  She then began binding Bridget's wrists behind her back!  A glance over her shoulder, as well as the obvious strength and competence of her captor, told Bridget all she needed to know.  Tonight's pouncing predator was Lydia.

"Help!  Oh, help!" Bridget declaimed in the manner of a Victorian damsel.  "I'm being abducted by a naked blond amazon!  Oh, help!"

"What makes you think I'm abducting you?" Lydia chuckled.  "Maybe I'm going to ravish you right here in your own bed."

"Point taken," Bridget purred, then resumed her weak flutter kicks and strangely ineffective, squirming struggles.  "Help!  Oh, help!"

Meanwhile, Lydia was putting the finishing touches on a simple but inescapable kimono-tie.  She'd looped a rope harness around Bridget's upper torso and shoulders and was using it to anchor the captive ginger's folded arms and crossed and bound wrists against her spine, just below her shoulder blades.  The tie was similar to a box-tie, but didn't pin her upper-arms to her sides.  This left Bridget's crooked elbows available as convenient handles, tools available for her captor to use in the control her captive; however, rather than grabbing an arm and using it to hustle Bridget from her bedroom, Lydia lifted her prisoner onto her right shoulder in a fireman's carry and carried her from her bedroom.

"So, you are abducting me," Bridget noted.  "Ow!"

Lydia had taken advantage of another virtue the kimono-tie, one it shared with the box-tie: the complete vulnerability of Bridget's exposed rear end.  She'd delivered a stinging slap to Bridget's right butt-cheek.  "Quiet," the naked predator admonished her naked prey.

"Help.  Oh, help," Bridget declaimed (quietly, as ordered), and flutter-kicked her bare legs and feet, not vigorously enough to make her stomach-down perch on Lydia's shoulder in any way precarious, of course, but enough for the desired dramatic effect.  "Oh, help."

Naked Lydia exited the mansion and carried her naked burden/prize/kidnap victim down the moonlit path to her cottage, through the door, and on into her bedroom.  This came as no surprise to the abductee.  What came as very much a surprise, however, was the presence of a third player to what Bridget had assumed would be a private game between herself and the Stable Mistress.

A decidedly female, decidedly fit body was lying on the rug at the foot of Lydia's bed.  A single-sleeve armbinder trapped her arms behind her back, with her elbows nearly touching—an elaborate harness of leather straps bound her legs together from ankles to thighs and pinned her encased arms to her torso—and a head-hugging, leather isolation hood, with integrated gag, earmuffs, and blindfold, encased her head.  Also, a steel collar was padlocked around her neck, over the hood's stiff leather collar, and a long chain linked the collar to the log frame of Lydia's bed.  The prostrate prisoner's skin was smooth, glistened with sweat, and was a very deep, very rich brown.  Despite the hood, the contours of her fit, athletic body were a dead giveaway.  Bridget knew that the captive on the carpet was unmistakably... Maya!

Lydia eased Bridget off her shoulder and the amazed ginger shook her head to straighten her pageboy, all the while staring at Maya's slowly writhing, squirming, totally restrained body.  She turned to Lydia... then back to Maya.

"There are earbuds under the helmet's earmuffs," Lydia explained, "broadcasting just enough white noise to mask all environmental sound.  She has no idea we're here."  Lydia pointed to the crotch-panel of Maya's harness. "See the trailing wires?  There's a compact battery pack and micro-computer control unit strapped to the small of her back, under the armbinder.  It randomly varies the timing and level of stimulation of the vibrators I inserted in her anus and pussy.  They're buzzing, but not enough to bring her off, never enough to bring her off  After all... what would be the fun in that?"

Bridget turned to Lydia, again, but still couldn't form a coherent sentence.  The smile on Lydia's beautiful face was chillingly evil.  Well, Bridget decided, not evil, per se.  In any case, the game she was playing with Maya was on a whole new level, a higher level.  Bridget returned her gaze to Maya... poor, helpless Maya... who was being erotically tortured before her very eyes.  It was... horrible?  Bridget decided to go with horrible.

"I believe Prancine and Scheherazade suspect that Maya and I play together, now and then," Lydia purred, "but as far as we know, they've never actually caught us in the act."  She leaned close and whispered in Bridget's left ear.  "If you tell them, or let Maya know that I let you see her like this, I'm very much afraid she might do something truly terrible to poor, innocent Freckles.  Understand?"

Bridget nodded, still staring at Maya in total amazement.  Maya is a closet bottom? she mused.  Go figure!

"Speaking of the other ponies," Lydia chuckled as she led Bridget to the bed.  "The brunettes are in the stables.  I strapped and padlocked Prancine into a sleeping harness, then locked the two of them in the same stall for the night.  Of course, Scheherazade isn't restrained in any way... so to speak."

Bridget smiled.  "I see.  Scheherazade is taking cruel and unspeakable revenge on the traitorous Slutty Stable Groom who was so cruel and unspeakable to us this afternoon."

Lydia grinned.  "Either that or they're sucking face and Scheherazade is making Prancine lick her pussy to orgasm, repeatedly, to the point of mutual exhaustion."

"That's what I meant," Bridget chuckled.

"Anyway..."  Lydia flopped onto the bed, taking Bridget with with her.  "Scheherazade and Prancine are in the stables, Felony is chained and locked in her cottage, safe and sound, and Maya is busy being driven slowly insane with sexual frustration.  It's just you and me, Ms. Riordan, and I have something to ask you."

Bridget snuggled her naked, bound body against her cruel kidnapper's naked, unbound body, and heaved a contented sighed.  "Ask away."

Lydia heaved a sigh of her own before continuing.  "You know that part of my duties as Stable Mistress is to read everything you send to your publisher, right?"

Bridget smiled.  "In case I'm trying to sneak in coded messages about my need for rescue?"

"Something like that," Lydia chuckled.  "Actually, exactly like that.  Anyway, I've read all three chapters of your new novel, plus your outlines and character notes."

Bridget craned her head and planted a kiss on Lydia's left nipple.  "And?"

"I'm the Scout-Captain of Imperial Dragoons guarding the captured princess being held prisoner by the evil empress," Lydia said.  "Aren't I?"

"Captain Lea?" Bridget responded.  "You mean is Lea based on you?  Well... yes.  Why?"

Seconds passed before Lydia continued.  "Uh, no reason.  It's just... she's an important character."

"She is," Bridget confirmed.  "She's on a hero's journey, just as much as the princess."

"Cool," Lydia sighed, then kissed Bridget's smiling lips.

Bridget smiled.  "I am thinking of killing her off in chapter five," she teased, "for dramatic purposes."

"Liar," Lydia purred.  "I've read the outlines, remember?  You'd have to scrap the entire plot and start over.  Anyway... don't you dare."

"I won't," Bridget promised, then kissed Lydia's nipple, again.

"I have another question," Lydia said quietly.  "Are you happy, Bridget?"

Seconds passed before Bridget answered.  "I've never been happier in my entire life," she said quietly.

More time passed before Lydia spoke again.  "And Freckles?"

"Oh, Freckles is very happy," Bridget chuckled.  "She enjoys helping me explore the psyches of her fellow ponies... and the cruel, sadistic humans who oppress us."

"I'm serious," Lydia huffed.

Bridget leaned close and kissed Lydia's lips.  "I am serious."  She kissed Lydia, again.  "How can I convince you?"

Lydia smiled, spread her legs, and made a slow, graceful, languid gesture towards the foot of the bed.  "Wiggle your freckled ass on down there.  I'm sure you'll think of something on the way.  And hurry up, or I'll tell Maya that not only did you see her harnessed and rolling around on my bedroom rug, but you laughed, mocked her naked body, and begged me to reprogram her controller for eight hours of nonstop orgasms."

Bridget smiled back.  "Yes, Scout-Captain of Imperial Dragoons," she sighed, squirmed down the bed and between Lydia's splayed legs, then positioned her body—especially her lips, tongue, and face—so she could entertain her captor for the evening.
A Pony Named Freckles
Epilogue & the story entire
The End


Chapter 9
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