|by Van © 2016
and Prancine were in the "Wet Room," a roughly twenty by thirty
foot chamber completely tiled with large, beige-colored
tiles. There was a drain in the floor, and the floor
itself was carefully pitched to gather water from all
directions. A deep sink occupied one corner, and mounted
to its right was a stainless steel reel with a black rubber hose
and a dangling steel nozzle. To the sink's left was a
steel cabinet containing bottles of liquid soap and stacks of
folded towels. Finally, off to one side was a padded massage
The ponies were standing flatfooted on the tiled floor with
their arms raised and their wrists locked in rubberized steel
cuffs attached to taut, vertical steel chains. They were
off their toes to allow the various tendons of their feet to
stretch or relax, as required. Mistress Lydia adhered to a
strict regimen. So many hours in pony-boots for her
beloved charges was compensated by so many hours off their toes.
The ponies were also completely naked, not counting their
captured wrists, and, having just received a thorough bath, were
dripping wet. Several minutes ago, Lydia had released
their wrists and hands from their pony-harness mitts and
muff-binders, placed them in their current positions
(predicaments), then given them both a thorough rinsing with the
hose, harnesses and all. She then unbuckled and removed
said harnesses, dumped the leather accouterments in a convenient
stable cart, then hosed off the ponies, again. The
meticulous use of a bucket, soapy water, and sponge
followed. Then, after a final rinse, Lydia pushed the
cartload of damp harnesses near the door and tipped the cart so
any water that cared to drain away could do so.
The ponies were in drip-dry mode, and watched patiently as Lydia
dumped and rinsed the bucket in the deep sink, inverted it in a
drying rack, rinsed the sponge and plopped it into a wire basket
next to the bucket, then turned off the water and purged
the hose. She then strolled to the ponies, crossed her
arms over her ample bosom, and smiled.
The ponies were helpless, of course, as the rubber-lined cuffs
were inescapable, but they weren't gagged. However, three
factors kept them from screaming and/or complaining and/or
whining and begging for release.
"Decisions, decisions," Lydia muttered under her breath as she
shifted her gloating gaze from pony to pony.
- Lydia had ordered them to remain silent. They all
knew Mistress (Eve) was in one of her moods and they'd just
as soon she concentrate on playing with her new pony rather
than deciding she needed to punish one or both of her "old"
ponies for vociferousness.
- Screaming and/or yelling would be pointless, as there was
no one within miles who would both hear said screams and
give a damn.
- Neither pony had any real complaints, not really.
Their morning workout had been a bitch, but so was Mistress
when she was in one of her moods. By this time they
were used to it, meaning their boots, harnesses, the
rigorous exercise routine, and their total
Both ponies rolled their eyes, then turned their heads to share
a look of mutual commiseration and a tragically sad sigh.
Lydia chuckled, then went to the cabinet for a towel, continued
on to a small control panel mounted on the wall opposite the
sink, and pressed a button.
Scheherazade watched as a motor somewhere overhead hummed and
Prancine's chains lowered until her fellow pony's hands were
even with her shoulders. Lydia strolled over, released her
manacles—meaning Prancine's manacles, Dammit!—then
tossed her the towel and pointed towards the massage table.
Prancine toweled herself dry as she padded to the table, then
quickly dried her hair and used the towel to give herself a
turban wrap. She then reached for the sky, executing a
boob-flattening stretch, and reclined on the table, face-down
Scheherazade continued watching as Lydia gave Prancine a slow,
deep, and very thorough massage, with oil. The brown-eyed
pony tried keeping the resentment from her pouting face, but
from the clever little glances in her direction and sly smirks
curling Lydia's lips, Scheherazade knew she was failing.
They'd played this game before. Everybody knew
Scheherazade was Mistress Lydia's favorite (and it was an open
secret that Lydia was Scheherazade's favorite Mistress).
Lydia had deliberately let Prancine go first. She always
let Prancine go first. Well, Scheherazade admitted
to herself, not always, but often enough. The
pouting pony stared into infinity, patently ignoring what was
happening at and on the massage table... and stoically endured
the Sublime Misery of her Tragic Ordeal.
Finally, Lydia gave Prancine her orders for the rest of the
day. They were:
- Finish drying and restoring her mane (hair).
- Gag herself with a Gwen-hood. All present knew
Maya liked the way a Gwen-hood looked on her
favorite pony. And speaking of Maya...
- Prancine was to report to the kitchen for further
instructions from the Mistress Cook.
scampered from the Wet Room and Scheherazade turned her head to
watch her go. She then turned back to find Mistress Lydia
standing directly in front of her, her arms crossed over her
chest, as before, and the same incredibly infuriating
(beautiful) smile curling her lips.
"I hate you," Scheherazade muttered in a quiet whisper.
She was blatantly violating the Mute Ponies decree, but didn't
"Hush," Lydia purred, placing her right index finger against
Scheherazade's pouting lips. "I'll gag you if I have
to." She then leaned close, withdrew her finger, and
planted a firm kiss on the captive ponygirl's lips.
Scheherazade parted her lips and "allowed" Lydia's tongue to
enter her mouth and slide against her own... tongue, that is.
The kiss continued for several seconds, then Scheherazade's eyes
popped wide and she mewled through Lydia's mouth.
The Stable Mistress' right hand was sliding against her labia,
and Lydia's right index finger had slid between her
labia and was tickling her clitoris! "Mrrrrpfh!"
Lydia paused her kiss, placed her left palm over Scheherazade's
mouth. "You naughty pony," she chuckled. "Mistress
is going to have to punish you." She released her
hand-gag—which had been remarkably effective as a pony-silencer,
despite not being particularly tight—and kissed Scheherazade's
lips, again. Her right hand continued its gentle, skilled
massage of the pony's pussy.
The kiss continued... the "massage" continued... and finally,
inevitably... Scheherazade squirmed and writhed in orgasm.
Lydia continued the kiss for a few seconds, then their lips
Scheherazade's nipples were pointing and her breasts heaved as
she panted for breath. Her lips curled in a coy
smile. She couldn't help herself. "I hate you," she
huffed, still smiling. "You're a cruel bitch."
"I am," Lydia chuckled in agreement. "I really am."
Scheherazade opened her mouth to deliver another pithy rebuke,
but Lydia's tongue returned before she could utter a sound.
The kiss had resumed.
|A Pony Named Freckles
helpless, clamped and strapped to a stainless steel
"gynecological examining table" in total darkness, and exhausted
from her bout in the exercise yard, Bridget drifted in and out
of consciousness. It could hardly be called taking a nap,
nor even a series of catnaps, despite her fatigue. She was
too frazzled and frightened for sleep.
Her "hydration" continued. That is, the lemon-lime fluid
dripping into her mouth from the inverted bottle overhead
continued, via the plastic tube attached to the perforated
rubber ball plugging her oral cavity and held in place by the
strip of tape sealing her lips—although it was more a matter of
her mouth being constantly wet with the cool liquid than an
actual flow. She managed to swallow without difficulty,
even while "napping," and at some point she realized the wetness
had abated. She surmised the unseen bottle suspended
overhead was empty.
Bridget struggled now and then, but weakly, and without
hope. How could I have been so stupid? she
chastised herself. I let them kidnap me!
It was true. Apparently, the old adage about curiosity and
the cat also applied to ponies. Bridget was helpless, and
humiliated, and... a prisoner! On one level, she reflected
that she really was getting into the head of a captured
and enslaved Centaur maiden, as intended. When she was
free, she'd have a lot to process, but she realized that at
least some of what was happening she would find useful, as a
writer. That was true, however...
Was it still an option for Bridget to simply stomp back to the
mansion, retrieve her purse, and depart Wilkinson Ranch in a
huff? Hadn't things gone too far for that? Didn't
she have an obligation to go to the police? Didn't she
have to say something to somebody, at the very
least? And there was the matter of her "sisters," the
brunette ponygirls Eve had forced to lick her feet and
toes. If the fictional Princess Siobhan was morally
obligated to help the fictional enslaved Centaurs of her
fictional evil stepmother queen's fictional kingdom, wasn't the
real Bridget Riordan obligated to help real
There was a serious complication, of course. Issues of
morality aside, Bridget wasn't in a position to help anyone, not
even herself. She squirmed in her bonds, again, and sighed
through her rubber ball and tape gag. She had no choice
but to bide her time and wait for her chance. Maybe Eve
would let her go. Maybe Lydia or her crazy mistress would
make a mistake and Bridget would free herself and escape.
Suddenly, the bright spotlights overhead clicked on and Bridget
flinched in her bonds and squeezed her eyes tightly closed in
"Did we have a nice nap, Freckles?" an all too familiar voice
Eve had returned. She was wearing the same riding boots,
jodhpurs, and rubberized apron as before, but had added a pair
of latex gloves to her ensemble.
Bridget found her heart was pounding in response. She was
frightened. How could she not be? Bridget was
controlling her fear, in that she wasn't panicking, but she
couldn't keep her heart from hammering. She watched as her
captor unplugged the tubing from her gag and removed the now
empty bottle from its overhead hook, then carried them away,
into the shadows. Then, the smiling blonde returned and
began turning a wheel on the side of the table. Gears
turned and the entire table pitched forward, taking Bridget with
it. Eve turned a second wheel and Bridget's already
splayed legs spread even further as the leg-troughs cranked
apart. Finally, Eve turned a third wheel and the section
of table under Bridget's butt folded back and away, leaving her
nether region completely exposed—not that it couldn't be said to
have been exposed before, of course. Anyway, her butt,
crotch, and splayed thighs were now hanging in midair.
Bridget squirmed and tugged on her bonds. Instead of being
semi-reclined, she was now more or less sitting upright, if the
bizarre pose imposed by the steel contraption could be called
"There," Eve said as she strolled into the shadows, once
again. "Almost ready to get you nice and cleaned out."
Bridget heard a sloshing sound, then Eve returned and hung a
roughly two-quart plastic bag of clear liquid from another
overhead hook. As with the bottle used for her
"hydration," a long, clear, neatly coiled length of plastic
tubing was attached to the bag. This time, the tubing was
a somewhat larger diameter, and it terminated in a blunt,
slightly bulbous probe.
Bridget's eyes popped wide and she shook her head in violent
negation. She'd realized exactly what she was
looking at; what the bag, tubing, and probe were for.
"Nrrr! Nrrr!" Her ginger pageboy had long
since dried but hadn't been brushed, so the tousled mass shook
and flopped but didn't ripple and sway in its usual
Still smiling, Eve ignored Bridget's gagged tirade and pointless
struggles as she anointed the end of the probe with a generous
dollop of clear lubricant. She did, however direct her
appreciative gaze to Bridget's (Freckle's) shaking, flopping,
and oscillating breasts as the helpless woman (pony) continued
struggling. Then, having finished her preparations, Eve
smiled and locked eyes with Bridget.
"I'll only make you hold this for fifteen minutes," Eve purred,
"then, afterwards, I'll give your crotch another rinse and
scrubbing to clean things up and we can move on to the next item
on our agenda."
"Nrrrrr!" Fifteen minutes? Agenda? What
agenda? Bridget continued shaking her gagged head
and tugging on her bonds. "Nrrr!"
"Settle down, Freckles," Eve purred. "Juuust
relax." She placed the tip of the probe against Bridget's
anus... and applied gentle pressure.
|A Pony Named Freckles
bounced into the kitchen and smiled at the busy cook.
"Hey, Maya!" she said brightly. "Got anything I can snack
on?" The ponygirl was naked, her usual "off-duty uniform"
this time of year.
"No, I do not have anything you can snack on," Maya
huffed as she continued chopping various vegetables.
"Didn't you have sweaty toes for lunch? That usually fills
"We did," Scheherazade chuckled, "and they were delicious...
except for the lint from the socks." She then reached for
a slice of carrot and got her hand slapped for her
Scheherazade's fellow pony, Prancine, was curled up on an
extra-large, oval-shaped pet bed tucked in a small alcove off to
one side. She was naked, like Scheherazade, except for the
black Gwen-hood laced and padlocked on her head. Her brown
curls formed a tousled pool behind her leather-encased head and
her eyes were closed, so either she was taking a pony-nap or was
"The new pony is quite the little actress," Scheherazade said.
Maya continued chopping vegetables. "Imagine the depth of
my disinterest," she stated.
"No, seriously," Scherezade chuckled, eyeing the fresh veggies
hungrily. "Either she's a dedicated thespian, 24/7, or
Mistress really has kidnapped her."
Maya rolled her eyes, then opened a cabinet, produced a small
dish, and quickly sliced and arranged several wedges of carrot,
apple, and cheese, added a dozen mixed olives, then strolled to
the pet-bed, knelt, and unlocked the padlock securing the collar
of Prancine's Gwen-hood. She pocketed the key and padlock,
then returned to preparing the evening meal. "Out!" she
ordered, pointing with her knife to the door leading to the
patio and pool. "I'll never get anything done with naked
ponies in my kitchen."
"Thanks Maya!" Scheherazade said as she grabbed the dish of
veggie-yummies and headed out the door. Prancine was close
behind, her hands already loosening the laces of the
Gwen-hood. She'd woken up and erupted from the bed with
lightning speed, so she probably had been faking her nap.
"Out!" Maya repeated. Her lips curled in a smile as soon
as she heard the door close behind her. The knife flew and
a sliced onion quickly became a mound of diced onion.
Maya's smile faded. She'd sneaked a couple of peeks of the
new pony exercising and being dragged into the stable. 'Freckles'
really is a convincing victim, she mused. I
wonder how long the Roja is gonna keep it up.
Maybe I should say something to Lydia. The onion
dealt with, she started on the first of several Serrano
peppers, deftly cutting it open and using the tip of the knife
to remove the seeds before giving it a rough chop. Let
it be Lydia's problem, she decided. I can't
complain about people invading the kitchen, then stick my nose
in the stables.
|A Pony Named Freckles
Bridget was beyond
humiliation. Her first ever enema was a thing of the past,
and Eve had already dealt with the results of the distressing
process by emptying, at some remote location, the bucket-like
"bedpan" that had been mounted under the table, then returning
to use the hose and some soapy water to bathe her crotch.
The involuntary nature of the ordeal was the worst part.
Eve cranked the steel table back to the semi-reclined
position... then continued cranking until Bridget was flat on
her back. The crazy, evil blonde then strolled away into
the darkness, once again. Bridget tugged on her wrist
clamps and squirmed against the rubber straps still pinning her
Seconds passed... turned into a minute... then, Eve returned,
and now she was pushing a stainless steel cart. Bridget
lifted her tape-gagged head and could see that neatly arrayed on
a green cloth on the cart were—"Mrrrk?"—an array of
distressingly large sterilized needles, each in its own
individual clear package, a stack of tiny, folded, white cotton
squares, a small plastic bottle labeled "ISOPROPYL ALCOHOL 7%,"
a pair of forceps, and two tiny, dumbbell-shaped stainless steel
posts in a small petri-dish. Bridget squirmed and
struggled in earnest. "Mrrpfh!" She knew exactly
what was waiting on the cart. It was everything Eve needed
to pierce her... something... somewhere.
"I know you've only just begun your training," Eve purred as she
lifted a cotton square from the stack and wet it with alcohol,
"but if we go ahead and do the first of your piercings now,
by the time we get to the 'erotic pleasuring skills' part of
your indoctrination, everything will have healed. Isn't
"Nrrrrr!" Bridget continued struggling as Eve used the wet
square to give her right nipple a gentle scrubbing. The
rapidly evaporating alcohol was cool, of course, and her nipple
tingled and stiffened in response. "Mrrrrrfh!" Next,
Eve used the forceps to grip the sides of the nipple and stretch
it slightly. She then deftly freed the business end of one
of the needles from its packaging with a deft snap and used it
to pierce the pink flesh! "MRRR!"
Bridget froze in her bonds. The needle had hurt,
but not as much as she'd feared. Again, the involuntary
nature of the process was the worst part. Also, the needle
was not tiny. In fact, once Eve unscrewed and
removed the sphere at the end of one of the posts, the shaft
post slid into the hollow needle. Eve then withdrew the
needle, leaving the shaft behind, screwed the sphere back in
place, and the deed was done. Bridget's right nipple had
been pierced and now sported a horizontal steel post with a tiny
sphere at either end to keep it in place. No more than a
drop of blood had been shed, and that was quickly wiped
away. "Nrrr!" The sting of the alcohol soaked pad as
Eve gave the nipple and post a final wipe was the most painful
part of the ordeal.
This was only half the process, of course, and Bridget struggled
and writhed as Eve used a fresh alcohol-soaked pad to disinfect
her left nipple.
The piercing, post emplacement, and after-piercing cleanup of
Bridget's left nipple was just as stinging, involuntary, and
humiliating as the right.
"Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" Eve cooed. She applied
a generous dollop of some sort of clear, gel-like ointment to
each nipple, then covered both nipples with a pair of
over-sized, circular band-aids. "In a couple of days, your
nipples will be well on their way to healing. In a
week, I'll be able to fit you with your permanent rings."
Bridget's eyes popped wide in alarm. "Mrrrk?" Permanent?
PERMANENT? "NRRR!" She tugged on her
wrist clamps, again, but was just as helpless as ever. Her
eyes welled and she began blinking back tears.
"There, there, Freckles," Eve chuckled, giving Bridget's taut
tummy a reassuring pat. "You'll look so pretty with rings
and bells. Now, why don't you take another nap?" She
leaned close and gave Bridget's bellybutton a delicate
kiss. "I know just what you need to relax."
Bridget continued weeping and tugging on the wrist cuffs.
Surprisingly, her pierced, posted, and band-aid patched nipples
didn't hurt. Maybe the goo she put on them is making
them numb, she reasoned. Again, it was the
involuntary humiliation she most resented... that and the loss
of her freedom.
Eve returned with a wand-style vibrator attached to a steel
"Mrrrk?" Bridget watched with alarm as Eve clamped the
vibrator to the edge of the table, between her splayed legs,
then made adjustments until the doorknob-sized head of the
vibrator was firmly pressed against her labia. She focused
on Eve's smiling face and shook her head. "Nrrr!"
Her eyes were wet with tears.
"Easy, Freckles," Eve purred. "Mistress knows best."
She patted Bridget's right thigh, between the rubber strap
pinning her to the steel trough and the vibrator squashing her
pussy, then turned and strolled away into the shadows.
"Nrrr!" Bridget continued struggling... and weeping.
Then, the lights winked out and once again she was in total
darkness. She forced a tired sigh through the ball filling
her mouth and tape sealing her lips, and closed her
eyes—"NRRRK!"—then opened them again and stared into the
darkness when the vibrator abruptly buzzed to life.
The thing had started out at what Bridget very much hoped was
full power, then had immediately diminished to a weak but definitely
noticeable buzz. Bridget shivered in her bonds and weakly
struggled against her bonds. For the moment, she'd
forgotten about the outrage of her pierced nipples. The
vibrator and the waves of titillating energy coursing through
her pussy had her full attention.
|A Pony Named Freckles
Lydia was at
the window wall of a small lounge near the kitchen and gazing
out at the pool. Scheherazade and Prancine were cavorting
in the cool water, naked, spinning, splashing, dunking each
other, and apparently doing their best to evoke a pair of river
otters at play. The stable mistress could just hear the
sound of their girlish shrieks and laughter through the
glass. Usually, the sight brought a smile to her lips, but
"A penny for your thoughts," a familiar, alto voice purred.
Lydia heaved a sigh. Maya had joined her and was also
gazing out at the pool, and the fact that the cook had left her
kitchen, entered the lounge, and arrived at her side unnoticed
was evidence of Lydia's preoccupation. "I'm thinking that
maybe this was a very bad idea."
"I wasn't going to say anything," Maya said quietly, "but
Scheherazade thinks Freckles might not be quite as enthusiastic
about joining the herd as Mistress led us to believe, and
Her eyes still on the pool and its naked occupants, Lydia leaned
close to Maya. "The walls have ears," she whispered.
"They do," Maya agreed, also in a whisper. "We were told
to keep an eye on Mistress."
"And I fully intend to do so," Lydia responded, still
whispering. "If things get out of control, I'll..."
Maya waited for Lydia to continue, then finished her thought for
her. "If things get out of control, you'll make the call."
Lydia heaved another sigh before answering. "Yes," she
whispered, "I'll make the call, but it could ruin everything."
Maya shrugged. "Yes, it could," she whispered back.
Lydia smiled, just a little. "Yeah, so what?" She
nodded towards the pool and spoke in her usual voice.
"After dinner, Mistress wants those two delivered to her bedroom
in sleeping harnesses and ring-gags. One of them is going
to sleep on the floor and the other will have to earn the right
to sleep with Mistress on the bed."
"In other words," Maya chuckled, also speaking normally, "a
typical night at Rancho Wilkinson."
Still smiling, Lydia gave a shrug of her own. "I can't say
you're wrong." The Stable and Kitchen Mistresses continued
watching the frolicking in the pool. "The ponies have had
a full day, but they're up to the challenge."
"Obviously," Maya agreed.
"I'll make it up to them tomorrow," Lydia said, "give them a
light day. I'll put my foot down if Mistress wants to
continue being a bitch. Besides, she'll be busy training
Maya smiled. "Speaking of Freckles..."
"Mistress has her locked in Building Seven," Lydia said, "in the
Maya's smile faded. "I hate Building Seven," she muttered.
Lydia turned her smile to her fellow mistress. "I know you
do. Once you've cleaned up after dinner and I've delivered
the ponies to Mistress, report to my place."
Maya's smile returned. "So, you think you can boss me
around, do you? Why should I—Mrrrk!"
Lydia had pulled Maya into a tight embrace and was kissing her
lips. At first, Maya resisted, but they both knew it was
an act. Pro forma resistance on Maya's part was
part of their game. The kiss continued, with tongue, and
now Maya was giving as good as she got.
Lydia came up for air. "Come naked. I have a new
harness I want to show you."
"Naked," Maya huffed. "If I catch a cold, it will be your
fault. I'll sneeze on your food."
"I'll take my chances," Lydia purred as she used her fingers to
comb an errant lock of Maya's long, raven hair from her smiling
face. "Besides, it's going to be a warm night."
"No," Maya disagreed. "It's going to be a hot
The kiss resumed.
|A Pony Named