A Pony Named Freckles
              Pony Named Freckles

by Van © 2016

Chapter 4



Something like fifteen minutes passed with Bridget still tethered between the two posts, squirming and fuming.  Freckles! she thought.  I don't need a new name, and if I did, it certainly wouldn't be 'Freckles!'  The ponygirl harness remained as tight and inescapable as ever.  Even without the mittens encasing her hands and rendering her fingers useless, she very much doubted she'd ever be able to escape the cunningly designed embrace of the corset, harness, and crotch-piece, no matter how hard or how long she struggled.

The sun was bright, too bright, and Bridget was beginning to sweat.  At least the spandex breathes, she thought with a sigh, and it protects my skin from the sun.  Her face was another matter, however, and she was afraid that when she was finally released and allowed to return home (meaning stomp home), she'd do so with greatly enhanced freckling across her cheeks and nose.  I just hope they don't leave me here long enough to develop a freckle-free line under this damn gag strap.

Bridget paused in mid-struggle.  She'd become aware of a faint tinkling noise coming from somewhere to her left, around the side of the main stable.  The sound became louder... and was joined by the thud of clopping hooves.  And then, Bridget's eyes popped wide as a truly bizarre vision came into view.

Two harnessed but otherwise nude women had appeared!  Both were brunettes and in very good shape, with deep, even tans.  Their harnesses were similar to the one hugging Bridget's outraged and amazed body, but without crotch-pieces.  The two brunette "ponies" were naked from their corseted waists to the tops of their pony-boots, with their thick, luxuriant pubic bushes on open display.  There was another difference: their tack was a darker shade of brown, but with the same bronze buckles and fittings as Bridget's, as well as the same gleaming texture.

Ponygirls!  Real ponygirls!

The women were, unmistakably, ponygirls!  They were pulling a cart or carriage or whatever you call the two-wheeled conveyance rolling behind their harnessed bodies, and their gags were rubber-padded bits, unlike the ball plugging Bridget's mouth.  Finally, long reins trailed from the head-harnesses (bridles?) caging their heads and anchoring the bits, then back to Lydia's hands.  The blond stable mistress wasn't seated in the single bucket-seat of the cart-thingie, but was walking at its side, even with the turning wheels.

"Whoa," Lydia said as she pulled back on the reins.  The ponygirls and cart stopped, and now the strange spectacle was even with Bridget and the two posts.

Amazed couldn't begin to describe Bridget's feelings.  Real ponygirls!  And they look every bit as helpless as I am!

"Ah, excellent!" a now familiar voice exclaimed.

Bridget turned to the right and beheld Eve strolling around the side of the stable.  Her riding costume was unchanged, but she'd added gloves and was carrying what Bridget believed was called a buggy-whip.

"You know what I want done with Freckles," Eve said to Lydia as she took the reins from her hand and climbed up onto the cart's bucket seat.

"I know," Lydia said, "but I'll determine the length of her exercise period."

Eve frowned.  "Until I get back from my sulky ride," she intoned.

"Or sooner," Lydia countered.  "I'm in charge of the stables, including the training of all horses and ponies.  Freckles is unbroken, untrained, and not in proper condition.  Rely on my expertise."

Eve sighed.  "You're right, of course, but she's to remain gagged, and you know why."  With that, Eve gave the reins a shake and the whip a snap, and the pongirls stepped off in perfect, well-trained unison.

Unbroken?  Gagged?  And Lydia knows why?  Bridget watched as the cart—she remembered Eve had called it a "sulky"—continued down the riding path.  The whip snapped again, the ponygirls broke into a jogging trot, and the fantastic vision disappeared into the forest.

Bridget turned back to find Lydia had gone to the left and right posts and slackened the support chains linking her to the pulleys in the beam overhead.  The smiling blonde then stepped in front of Bridget and released the clips attaching the chains to the shoulder straps of her harness.

"Now," Lydia purred as she used her fingers to straighten the bangs of Bridget's ginger pageboy, "you and I have to reach an understanding.  I don't care what role-playing game you're playing with Eve.  Pretend to be reluctant, surprised, and outraged to your heart's content.  That's between Mistress and yourself."

Bridget frowned.  What the hell is she talking about?  'Role-playing?'

"That said," Lydia continued, "you're in my stable, now, and you will obey every order I give you, to the best of your ability, or you will be punished.  Mistress pays me to train her ponies, and you will be trained.  Do you understand?"

Bridget blinked in surprise.  Train me?  I don't want to be—"Mrrrk!" Lydia had slapped her gagged-face!  It had been much more shocking than painful, but still...

"Again," Lydia said.  "Do.  You.  Understand?"

Bridget blinked a couple of more times, then nodded.

"Good."  Lydia reached down and released the double-ended clip joining Bridget's boot-tops.  She then lifted a short rope lead that had been draped over her shoulders, clipped one end to a D-ring in the front of Bridget's harness, more or less even with the top of the corset, and led her away.  "If you even try and kick me," she called back over her shoulder, "I'll fetch a riding crop and give you a thrashing you'll never forget."

In something of a daze, Bridget clomped obediently behind her Stable Mistress.  She certainly didn't want a thrashing.

Their destination was the exercise yard that had been part of the tour, yesterday.  Lydia clipped the pair of chains dangling from one end of the motorized crossbeam overhead to the D-rings at the shoulders of Bridget's harness, then released the rope lead and draped it over her shoulders, as before.  Bridget noted that the exercise machine's chains had a few inches of slack, enough that if she let them take her weight, she's be almost on her knees.

"The motor is strong enough to drag you if you let it," Lydia said, "but I don't recommend it.  An alarm will sound and I'll return and give you that thrashing I warned you about."

Bridget watched as Lydia strolled to the side door entrance to the main stable and used a key to open the steel cover of some sort of control box.  The distance was too far for her to see what was happening in detail, but Lydia seemed to be punching buttons and turning dials.  She then closed and locked the cover and turned to smile at Bridget.

The motor at the hub of the crossbeam hummed, then the crossbeam began to slowly turn.  Bridget watched as the chains dangling from her harness went taut, then pulled her forward.  Having no desire to be either dragged or thrashed, Bridget stepped off.

"I know you aren't used to your new boots," Lydia said as Bridget began slowly trudging around the circular track, "but this is the only way."

Bridget continued around the track, her hoof-prints superimposing themselves on the countless prints that had come before... and when the control panel next to the door came back into view... Lydia was gone.

The pony-boots really were giving Bridget's pointing feet excellent support, but mincing along on tiptoe was hardly something she was used to.  Her toes weren't complaining just yet, but she expected her little piggies would eventually be squealing.

A Pony Named Freckles
Chapter 4

Bridget had no idea how long she'd been walking in the endless circle imposed by the slowly revolving crossbeam and its relentless motor, but if felt like at least an hour... maybe more.

The sun was hot, her gagged face was shining with sweat, and the rest of her was also sweaty, especially where the spandex unitard was under the harness and corset.  And as for her poor feet, "squealing piggies" was inadequate.  To coin a phrase, her dogs were barking!  It was a general soreness, especially around her pointing toes, but her arches, ankles, and calves were also complaining.  And she could do nothing about it other than lift one boot, plant it forward, put her weight on her toes, lift the other boot, plant it forward, put her weight on her toes—lather, rinse, repeat.

Actually, unlike a real sweating horse that might work up an actual lather of equine perspiration, Bridget had to settle for sweat dripping into her eyes, causing her now slightly damp pageboy to droop, and possibly leaving telltale damp spots on her bronze and vermilion iridescent unitard at all the expected places.

As for a rinse, Bridget very much desired a good rinse, especially if it came in the form of a cold shower.  She'd settle for being doused with a hose.  And if it included a nice, cool drink, so much the better.

And as for the repeat part.  Repeat, Bridget had.  Bridget had plenty of repeat.  Clomping step followed clomping step, and circle followed circle, with the motor continuing its now highly irritating hum.

And then... it stopped.  It all stopped—the humming, the stepping, and the endless orbits of the post.   Bridget lifted her gagged, sweaty, and flushed face to find Lydia closing and locking the panel of the exercise machine's control panel.  Obviously, she'd turned the damn thing off... finally.

Smiling a friendly (meaning infuriating) smile, Lydia stepped forward, released the clips of the chains linking Bridget to the end of the crossbeam, clipped the rope lead to the front of her harness, as before, and led the wet, stumbling pony towards the stable.

"Time for you to cool off, Freckles," Lydia purred.

Bridget was too tired and her feet too sore for a display of anger, but she was not feeling especially cooperative.  I am not 'Freckles!' she fumed, silently.

Lydia led her new charge into a side room and Bridget found herself staring at a curious piece of... furniture?  A vertical timber post was embedded in the floor and solidly attached to the rafters overhead.  Bolted to the post was a simple wooden seat at the appropriate height, and in front of post and seat was a set of stocks: thick, horizontal timber planks between two short posts with a pair of padded openings about two feet apart and two feet off the floor.


Lydia ignored Bridget's gagged inquiry as she dragged her forward and forced her to sit on the wooden seat with her back against the post.  The stable mistress then released the hefty, spring-loaded clamp securing the stocks and lifted the top plank up and back on its heavy-duty hinge.  Next, she went to a nearby wooden rack holding leather straps and coils of rope and returned with two wide straps and two short lengths of thin rope.

Bridget squirmed and complained—"Nrrrf!"—but couldn't prevent Lydia from strapping her to the post.  One strap went across her throat, and the other around her corseted and harnessed waist.  The neck strap pinned her head back but wasn't especially tight.  The waist strap, on the other hand, was just as tight as the rest of the leather system hugging her sweaty, spandex-clad body.

Lydia then knelt, looped a length of rope around the ankle of her right boot, then tied the end of the rope to the post, somewhere under the seat.  Bridget realized the ankle rope was to prevent her from kicking... not that she wasn't both too exhausted and too intelligent to try kicking the smiling stable mistress.

Meanwhile, Lydia shifted to the left side and began unlacing Bridget's left boot.  Bridget watched the process with interest.  Finally getting out of the boots was a good thing... she hoped.  The stocks were waiting, and what Lydia was doing was obvious.  Bridget's feet were destined for the stocks!  She'd known that from the instant they entered the room.  She considered trying to fight, but what was the point?  Obviously, Lydia knew what she was doing.  Bridget was solidly strapped to the post and her right foot was tethered.  At least I'm losing the boots, she thought with a gagged sigh.

The left boot slithered free from Bridget's foot—which felt very good—then Lydia tightened a rope noose around Bridget's ankle, placed her foot in the left half-opening in the stocks, and tied the rope around the base of the stock's left post.  Bridget's thick and now somewhat damp wool sock remained in place.

While Lydia shifted sides and started unlacing Bridget's right boot, the prisoner-of-the-post visually examined the stocks.  The padding under her left ankle and the stock's other openings appeared to be generous strips of fleece-covered hide, held in place with neat rows of brass tacks.  It felt good to finally be able to flex her sock-covered foot.  Then, Bridget's right foot was in the right opening, Lydia lowered and secured the top half of the stocks, and both feet were imprisoned in fleece-padded wood for the duration... but the duration of what?

Lydia loosened the nooses still around Bridget's feet, coiled and returned the ropes to the rack, then exited the room.

Finally alone, Bridget thought.  Now's my chance!  Chance to do what, I have no idea.  I think I'm losing it.

Lydia returned almost immediately, and in her hand was a sloshing, translucent plastic bottle with a curved plastic straw protruding from its cap.  "This is ice-water," she announced, "so we'll take it slow."  Lydia then inserted the tip of the straw in the saliva-dripping corner of Bridget's ball-gagged mouth, and gave the bottle a squeeze.

Glorious, cold wetness invaded Bridget's rubber-plugged mouth!  Squeeze followed squeeze, with seconds between, until something like a pint of clear, icy water had found its way down Bridget's throat.  Obviously, Bridget would just as soon have her gag removed so she could drink properly, but the water was most welcome, nonetheless.  And Lydia had once again demonstrated her expertise.  Bridget had never even come close to choking.

"Now," Lydia said as she turned and strolled to the open door, "rest for a while.  I'll be back."

Belatedly, Bridget lodged a complaint—"Nrrrk!"—but the Stable Mistress was already gone.  Rest?  How the hell am I supposed to 'rest?'  She heaved a sigh and let her body go limp in her bonds, relaxing as best she could.  She was still sweaty, from her still flushed and possibly slightly sunburned face to her sock-covered toes, but the air in the stable was hot, or at least hot enough that she wasn't getting a chill.  At least I'm not sweating any new sweat, Bridget thought... and closed her eyes.

Seconds passed... and became a minute.

Just as Bridget was starting to drift off to sleep, she became aware of a quiet noise... clomping hooves... accompanied by normal, meaning human footsteps... as well as the tinkling of... ponygirl harnesses?

Bridget opened her eyes—and they widened in renewed amazement.

Eve was entering the room, and at the ends of a pair of rope leads were the two brunette ponygirls Bridget had seen earlier.  They were no longer pulling the sulky, of course, but their harnesses and boots were unchanged.  However, the reins and rubber-clad bits formerly attached to their bridles were gone, replaced by rubber-clad rings that propped the ponygirl's mouths wide open.  Also, their tan, smooth, naked skins glistened with sweat, like Bridget's face.  Apparently, Eve had given them quite a workout.

"There's my pretty Freckles," Eve cooed, a smile curling her lips and dimpling her cheeks.  "Did you enjoy your first time going walkies?"

Bridget was busy gazing at the fit, athletic, and helplessly restrained bodies of the two flesh-and-blood (and sweaty) ponygirls, but she spared a few seconds to send a dozen or so visual daggers speeding in Eve's direction.

Blithely ignoring Bridget's hostility, Eve led the two ponygirls forward, then pointed at the floor in front of the stocks and Bridget's wool-clad feet.  The ponygirls knelt on the hard floor, then Eve looped and hitched the ends of their leads around the stock's right and left posts.  She then stood between the kneeling ponies and placed her gloved hands atop their harnessed heads.

"Freckles," Eve purred, "I'd like you to meet Scheherazade and Prancine."

Bridget stared in amazement.  "Scheherazade" was on her left, and had brown eyes.  "Prancine" was on her right, and her eyes were blue-green, more or less a blend of Bridget's green and Eve's ice-blue.  Pony names, Bridget thought, just like I now have a pony name.

Eve leaned down and pulled the wool socks from Bridget's feet.

Bridget wiggled her toes.  Her feet were damp and sweaty, and now that the socks were gone, they tingled and began to cool.

Eve stepped to the rack of straps and ropes and returned with a riding crop.  She used it to deliver a businesslike whack to her left palm, smiled at Scheherazade and Prancine, and the ponygirls lifted their harnessed and ring-gagged heads and gazed up at their smiling Mistress in response.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Eve chuckled, then used the crop to point to Bridget's (Freckle's) feet.  "Welcome your new sister."

Scheherazade and Prancine locked eyes with Freckles (Bridget), then leaned forward, extended their tongues through their ring-gags, and began licking Bridget's toes and feet!


Bridget squirmed and fought her bonds.  She also did her best to wiggle her toes, flex her imprisoned feet, and evade the ponygirl's slobbering tongues, but with very limited success.

Eve gave first Scheherazade's right butt-cheek and then Prancine's left butt cheek a very solid whack with the crop.  "More enthusiasm!" the evilly smiling blonde ordered.

Bridget continued struggling and twisting against the post, wiggling her toes, and flexing her feet, to no avail, and the highly unconventional foot-bath continued.

Oddly, Bridget found her feet were not being tickled... much.  Given the nonstop oddity of virtually everything that had happened since breakfast, it was a small thing, but there it was.  The licking and slobbering was unpleasant, but her feet didn't tickle, much.  They did, however, tingle in response to the wet, pink, sliding tongues.

Scheherazade and Prancine continued sucking and licking Bridget's toes, including the areas between, as well as sliding their tongues across her soles, the tops of her feet, and her heels.  The ring-gags were putting something of a cramp in their styles, but they were making up for it with enthusiasm.  Their motivation was Eve's riding crop, of course.  Additional punishment had not yet been applied, but the threat was ever present.

Bridget squirmed in her bonds, continued wiggling her toes and flexing her ankles, and watched her new "sisters" bobbing heads and swaying ponytails.  Despite the rings propping open their mouths and the headstalls or bridles or whatever they called the damn things caging their heads, Bridget could tell the ponygirls were very beautiful, as in actress or model beautiful.  And as she'd noted earlier, they were in very good shape.  Their physiques were not only athletic, but highly feminine.  Both had nice breasts, not overly large or bulbous, but nice.  At the moment, with their owners kneeling, leaning forward, and doing their best to lick and suck Bridget's feet, the breasts in question were more-or-less hanging, as well as swaying and bobbing, but they were unmistakably nice.  Finally, and also as earlier noted, the ponygirls had exquisite tans.  Apparently, they spent a lot of time outdoors.

"And what do you think you're doing?" a now familiar and somewhat husky voice demanded.

Eve, Scheherazade, Prancine, and Bridget stopped what they were doing—gloating, slobbering, slobbering, and squirming, respectively—and turned to find Lydia standing in the doorway, and the Stable Mistress was not happy.  "I've told you a thousand times," Lydia said, apparently addressing Eve.  "Ponies will not be put away wet at Wilkinson Ranch."

"I'm hardly putting them away," Eve chuckled, "wet or otherwise... not yet."

"You're letting them get stiff," Lydia countered, "and in the case of Freckles, she's untrained, remember?  She might develop cramps."

Eve shrugged.  "I don't think so.  In any case—"

"In any case," Lydia interrupted, pointing at Bridget, "you're supposed to be cleaning and massaging that one's feet."  She then indicated Scheherazade and Prancine.  "And those two should be in the Wet Room, waiting for me to give them their showers and change their tack.  Lydia favored her employer with an even stare.  "You might insist on handling Freckles all by yourself, but you'll do so following my guidelines and standards.  Your sister might have put you in charge of the ranch, but remember who's in charge of the stables."

Eve favored Lydia with a rather unctuous smile.  "Let's not argue in front of the animals, shall we?"

Lydia rolled her eyes, stepped forward, and released Scheherazade and Prancine's rope leads from the base of the stocks.  The ponygirls climbed to their booted feet with surprising grace, then obediently (and involuntarily) followed Lydia from the room.

Eve waited until the sound of Lydia's cowgirl boots and the ponies' pony-boots had faded, then strolled to the door and eased it closed.  She then turned and smiled at Bridget.

Bridget watched as Eve reached into the pocket of her jodhpurs, pulled out a folded white handkerchief and a small glass vial.

"Now," Eve said as she unscrewed the vial and dumped its clear, fluid contents into the handkerchief, "I can't indulge myself like this too often.  Lydia says it would have long term, deleterious effects on your liver and kidney functions; however, I find myself somewhat fatigued after my exhilarating sulky ride around the perimeter trail and not in the mood for a wrestling match, so..."

Bridget squirmed in her bonds as Eve sauntered forward and firmly pressed the folded cloth against her ball-gagged face, covering her nose and mouth!  "Mrrrpfh!"  Chloroform?  It had been a few years, but Bridget thought she recognized the acrid smell from one of the labs of the chemistry-for-non-majors survey course she'd taken for science credit at Lewis & Clark!  If the chemical soaking the hankie wasn't chloroform, it was something similar!  "Nrrr!"  Belatedly, she tried holding her breath, but the horrid vapors had already invaded her sinuses.  She wiggled and fought her inescapable restraints, but—

Bridget's eyes rolled up in her head... then closed.

Smiling her evil, gloating smile, Eve continued holding the cloth in place for several seconds... then tossed it away and began combing her fingers through Bridget's hair, straightening the hang of her ginger pageboy.  "So very pretty," she sighed.  "Freckles is such a pretty, pretty pony."

A Pony Named Freckles
Chapter 4

Bridget opened her eyes—then closed them, immediately.  A bright light was shining in her face.  She had a bit of a headache, but it wasn't bad, and it was fading, rapidly.  This was just as well, as Bridget was discovering that she had much more serious problems than throbbing temples.

For one thing, Bridget was naked, completely naked, and semi-reclined on her back on some sort of hard surface with her arms raised with her hands even with her head to either side.  Her wrists were imprisoned in some sort of padded clamps.  Also, her knees were bent, her legs splayed, and her ankles also locked in padded clamps.  She opened her eyes, blinked as they adjusted to the glare, and confirmed her condition.  She was, indeed naked, and the surface was something like an examining table—a gynecologist's examining table, with stirrups and leg troughs.  It was stainless steel, and without any sort of padding.  Large hand-wheels to either side hinted that parts of the table were adjustable in some manner.

The clamps around her wrists and ankles were also stainless steel, and were lined with thick layers of black rubber.  Bridget squirmed and tugged on the wrist and ankle clamps, they were thick and wide and followed the curves of the relevant anatomy.  She had to admit she was more-or-less comfortable, but the table could have used a little padding.

Oh by the way, her gag had been changed.  The ball-gag had been replaced by a different, slightly smaller ball, but instead of a strap, it was held in place by a wide strip of some sort of tape.  A mirror was unavailable for a detailed analysis, but looking down her nose, she could just see the end of a couple of inches of some sort of clear tubing protruding from between her lips and piercing the tape.  She tried rolling her tongue, with severely limited success, but noted the end of the tube moved in concert with the ball filling her mouth.  She surmised the two were attached.

Her skin was more or less intact, what she could see of it.  The now absent corset, harness, crotch-piece, and pony-boots had left a few marks, but there was no bruising or welts and the reddish stripes seemed to be fading.  Bridget tugged on her bonds, again, but was just as helpless as before.  She was nowhere near as elaborately bound, but was just as helpless.

"Good, you're awake."

Bridget turned her head and watched Eve stroll into the light.  Obviously, she'd been there all along, but the glaring fixture directly overhead seemed to be the only light and the rest of the room was more-or-less cloaked in darkness.  Eve was dressed as before: brown riding boots, tan jodhpurs, and a white blouse.  Bridget glared at her captor—and there was no other way she could characterize Eve Wilkinson.  Ponygirl nonsense aside, Bridget had been kidnapped.  She was a prisoner.  "Mrrrpfh!"

Ignoring Bridget's outburst, Eve unbuttoned and removed her blouse, then tossed it aside.  She wasn't wearing a bra.  The smiling blonde then donned a full-length, black, rubberized apron, dropping it over her head and tying its waist-strings behind her back.  Her arms and shoulders were bare, except for the apron's spaghetti-thin shoulder-straps, her breasts bulged against the glistening fabric, and her sides (and a little side-boob) were on display.  She strolled to the table and placed her right hand on Bridget's left thigh.

"Let's get you cleaned up, shall we?" Eve purred, then turned and strolled into the shadows.

Bridget tugged on her bonds, again.  She heard a metallic creak, followed by a gurgling sound, and Eve returned, holding a nozzle at the end of a long, trailing rubber hose.  "Nrrrf!"  Bridget could do nothing to prevent Eve from triggering the nozzle.  "MRRRRF!"  A stinging spray of cold water began playing up and down Bridget's wiggling, captive form.  "Nrrrrr!"  Soon, she was drenched from head to toe, including, of course, her now sopping hair.

The stream of water stopped, but now Eve had a bucket of warm, soapy water and a large sponge and was scrubbing Bridget's shivering, dripping wet body.  Lucky for Bridget, the soap was of the gentle, "no more tears" variety, because Eve was very thorough. Every square inch of Bridget's pale, shivering, squirming body not directly resting on the steel table and in the troughs was visited by the soapy sponge.

"Mrrrrf!" Bridget complained.  She conceded that given her post-exercise, somewhat funky condition, the sponge bath might be necessary, but it was also humiliating.  "MRRF!"  The hose was back, and now Eve was using it to rinse off the suds.

Dripping wet and clean, Bridget tugged on her bonds in frustration.  Then, her eyes widened in apprehension.  Eve had pushed a stainless steel cart into the light, and on it were a steel basin half-filled with sloshing water, a shining steel safety razor, and a can of mentholated shaving cream!

"Nrrrr."  It wasn't a gagged shout.  Bridget was becoming slightly inured to being toyed with by Eve.  She didn't like it, and at some point in the future there would be hell to pay, but right now it was all getting to be just too much... too much for her to keep wasting her energy with useless struggling, and too much for pointless gagged protests.

To make a long, humiliating story short, Eve applied lather and carefully, gently shaved both of Bridget's armpits and the full lengths of both of her legs.  She also used delicate strokes of the razor to neatly define the margins of Bridget's ginger pubic bush.

A final rinse from the hose followed, and now Bridget was clean, freshly shaved, and helpless—and she became even more helpless as Eve tightened rubber straps across her upper arms, thighs, and below her knees, further pinning her to the table and her legs in the troughs.

Next, Eve hung what appeared to be an inverted glass bottle of some sort of green liquid from a hook overhead.  Bridget could see moisture beaded on the sides of the bottle and surmised its contents were cold.  Eve then attached one end of a long, thin, clear length of flexible tubing to the tube protruding from Bridget's tape-gag, and the other to the cap of the inverted bottle.  It was an I.V. drip arrangement, the kind used to deliver drugs to hospital patients, only this time, it would be used to deliver liquid to Bridget's sealed mouth.

"The ball in your mouth has about a dozen small holes," Eve explained as she released a plastic clamp, "and I've set the drip rate to a mere trickle, so enjoy your hydration."  She tapped the bottle.  "Lemon-lime!  Yum!"

Bridget watched the green fluid slowly march down the tube and ever closer to her taped mouth—"Mrrrpfh!"—then she flinched when Eve gently cupped her right breast and gave it a squeeze.

"You're very beautiful, Freckles," Eve sighed.  "Your nipples, copper-red bush, and pretty pussy... very beautiful.  I'm entirely pleased.  You're going to make a magnificent pony, once you're properly trained."  She continued her gentle kneading of Bridget's breast.  "The pageboy will have to go, of course, but by the time Lydia has you broken to the harness and in good condition, it will all have grown long enough for a proper ponytail, bangs included.  And a year from now... you'll be perfect."

"Mrrrk?"  A year from now?  A YEAR from now?  "Mrrrrpfh!"  Bridget shook her head in violent negation.  Her tousled hair was too wet to sway in sympathy, but it did move, at least a little.

Eve ignored her pony's reaction.  "You'll be trained as a working pony, of course," she continued, "but you're so beautiful and exotic, I think I'll also make you a dressage pony, my first dressage pony.  Pretty rings and delicate bells for your nipples and labia, special training so you can high-step and do tricks in harness...  My friends will be so jealous.  None of them have a strawberry-roan dressage pony."

Bridget stared at Eve in horror.  Rings?  Bells?  She's crazy!

"Now," Eve purred, releasing Bridget's breast, "you have a nice rest.  When I get back, I'll give you an enema to get you clean, inside and out, then your training will really begin."

Bridget tugged on her bonds and mewled through her gag.  The liquid had reached her mouth, and it was, indeed, cool and lemon-lime, but she had other concerns.  Enema?  Training?  "Mrrrrfh!"

Eve turned and stepped into the darkness.  There was a pause... then the overhead lights winked off and the darkness became total.

"Nrrrrrrrrrrk!"  Bridget's heart was hammering and her naked breasts heaving as she panted through flaring nostrils.  This was no longer a tasteless practical joke taken too far.  Bridget had been kidnapped, for real!  And she was at the mercy of a madwoman!

A Pony Named Freckles
Chapter 4

The  End

Chapter 3
Chapter 5