A Pony Named Freckles
A
              Pony Named Freckles


by Van © 2016


Chapter 5


DRAMATIS PERSONÆ


OUR STORY CONTINUES

Scheherazade 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 table.

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.
  1. 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.
  2. Screaming and/or yelling would be pointless, as there was no one within miles who would both hear said screams and give a damn.
  3. 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 helplessness.
"Decisions, decisions," Lydia muttered under her breath as she shifted her gloating gaze from pony to pony.

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 and full-length.

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:
  1. Finish drying and restoring her mane (hair).
  2. 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...
  3. Prancine was to report to the kitchen for further instructions from the Mistress Cook.
Prancine 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 care.

"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 parted.

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
Chapter 5
Naked and 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!  I... cooperated!

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 ponygirls?

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.  Maybe.

Suddenly, the bright spotlights overhead clicked on and Bridget flinched in her bonds and squeezed her eyes tightly closed in response.

"Did we have a nice nap, Freckles?" an all too familiar voice inquired.

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 "sitting."

"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 manner.  "Nrrrrr!"

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.

"NRRRRR!"
A Pony Named Freckles
Chapter 5
Scheherazade 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 you up."

"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 trouble.  "Ow!"

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 faking it.

"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
Chapter 5
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 in place.

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 that sensible?"

"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.

"Nrrrrrk!"

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 clamp.

"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
Chapter 5
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 not today.

"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 Prancine agrees."

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.  "So what?"

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 Freckles."

Maya smiled.  "Speaking of Freckles..."

"Mistress has her locked in Building Seven," Lydia said, "in the basement."

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 night."

The kiss resumed.
A Pony Named Freckles
Chapter 5
The  End


Chapter 4
Chapter 6


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